


It Plays in the Moonlight

by Cadistra



Series: Werewolves of London [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, Werewolf, Werewolves, Work In Progress, blood/gore, this is going to get really violent and gorey later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cadistra/pseuds/Cadistra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets bitten by something big, hairy and violent back in Afghanistan. After being sent home, he blacks out on a full moon night and thinks he killed a man in a violent rage. Something awful is boiling just beneath the surface, and it's really a shame that his new friend, flatmate, and the object of his affections - Sherlock Holmes - has to get dragged into all of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks!  
> This is actually my first fanfic in well over a decade! I'm a much better artist than a writer, so please a) bear with my less-than-stellar writing, and b) feel free to leave any comments/criticisms! 
> 
> A side note - I've always loved werewolves. I love the idea of changing; of transforming; of ascending to something greater than the flimsy things us humans are today. I liked werewolves before they were cool /hipster glasses.  
> In any case, the werewolves in this story are my favourite kind - brutal, savage, and violent - a true product of their primal nature and fury, with agonizing, clothes-tearing, choking-on-your-own-pain transformations.  
> So if you're looking for modest, prudent, magical changes, or alpha/omega stuff - it ain't here (not that I have anything against that).
> 
> Finally, the BBC Sherlock belongs to the ultimate trolls, Moffat and Gatiss. This is just for fun. 
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy!
> 
> EDIT - I'm still trying to get used to AO3 formatting. I'm writing the whole thing in Google Docs, so I'm experimenting with spacing things out. Ao3 seems to have it's own "style" in formatting, and I'm trying to achieve what I like to read on this site. My eyes aren't the best, so I'm adding more spaces. >_>;  
> Thanks for your patience!

\------------------------------------------------------

John never thought he would ever get used to the smell of blood.

Hell, even as a doctor, he never even thought there was a smell. Just something weird you read in comics, or saw in especially gorey movies.

But as he laid there in the cool sand, wide eyes staring at the tiny pinpricks of stars on the black sky, he could smell it. It was everywhere. It was everywhere, and it belonged to the now former members of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

 

It had all began normally enough. They were on a patrol; just a regular, normal, nothing-is-supposed-to-happen routine patrol. It was even a nice night - well, as far as nice can be with the threat of being shot. The sky was a deep blue; there were vast, twinkling ribbons of stars everywhere, and the moon. Oh, the moon - it hung in the sky, a great, fat, pregnant moon, and John watched in fascination as it lazed around, surrounded by its many starry children. It was the kind of night where you looked up, and got kind of dizzy, and thought a lot about things you don’t normally think about, like your place in the universe, or where exactly did you put your other set of keys.

Then, it had appeared. 

It was terrifying - at first, the men thought it was a joke, but as it got closer, they could see it. A great, hulking creature, running at them on all fours, with comically long front legs and bright, yellow eyes. It moved fast; faster than any other animal they had ever seen, and before they could get a shot off, it was upon them. White moonlight highlighted the long, furry, pointed ears, and jets of blood glistened with the stark contrast of its near-white teeth. John shouted orders, and unloaded a full clip of his semi-automatic at it, but the thing rose on two great, wolf-like legs and swatted him away. It tore his men apart, and even as John lept in (not thinking, of course, he was terrible for rushing headlong into danger), all he could think about was to save his remaining men. 

The creature swiveled its great head around and clamped its teeth down hard on John’s right leg, tearing through the flesh and snapping the bone in several places. Pain exploded, and blooms of black began dancing in John’s field of vision. The wolf-man, the great parody of humanity, loomed over John after taking a mouthful of McHavon, his munitions expert, its great, stupid eyes gleaming with hunger. He startled as a single shot rang out in the night, and a part of the creature’s head suddenly exploded in a shower of gore. The creature toppled over and crumbled to a heap in the cool sand. John gingerly rose up to his elbows; God, the pain! It felt like his blood was on fire - and saw a man. 

 

A lone figure stood in the darkness, covered head to toe in scarves, bangles, and charms. The person (a man, John thought, he has a long beard) expertly reloaded a massive, but beautifully decorated revolver. The tall, skinny Afghani mystic began reloading additional bullets in the guns’ chamber, his bright eyes surveying the scene with expertise. John watched in horror as this man, this image of calm amidst the chaos, walked up to every one of his dead comrades and unloaded a single bullet in each of the bodies.  
“Stop!” John shouted, voice hoarse from screaming frantic orders. “What...what are you doing? Please, help us! My men...my men! Don’t shoot them, please...!” The man never stopped. With methodical ease, he approached every body, twitching with remnants of life or stone dead, and shot them. Each and every one. “Please!” John pleaded. “Why are you doing this?! You’re...sick! Please! Please....you must help us...we...are not your enemy!” The fire in John’s veins was making it difficult to talk; he wondered how much blood had he lost.

The dark-skinned mystic fired another shot, the pitiful wail of Cunningham ( _field navigation,_ John’s mind supplied) ringing in the air, and slowly walked towards John. He refilled the gun’s chamber, gleaming bullet by gleaming bullet, and stood over John, his eyes half-lidded, yet shining with pity. John held his breath as the man raised the revolver over John’s chest. 

Later, he could recall the last thing the man said to him before he fired the shot that was supposed to go in his heart:

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

 

_Are you sure you don’t remember anything else, Captain Watson?_ , they had asked. _You were barely alive when we found you. We could only rescue one other, though. We’re so, so sorry Captain._ John blinked blearily against the buzzing fluorescent lights. That’s all they kept asking - if he remembered. Of course he remembered; he was there, thank you very much. The agonizing screams of his men rang in his ears every time he tried to go to sleep. But he couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t sure if he could ever sleep again, not with all this pain. 

His left shoulder throbbed with infection, and his leg twinged while the muscle tissue rebuilt itself. _Why is your leg healing so quickly, Captain Watson?_ a nurse had asked. _Do you know why? Do you remember why? What happened, Captain Watson? Do you remember?_

Of _course_ he remembered. He was there.

 

John drifted in and out of a medicated sleep for two weeks. He was sick; very sick - he was hot and violent with fever; he had awoken one time just long enough to realize that he was restrained to the flimsy hospital bed. He would thrash and scream and yell. He would swear himself hoarse and curse every god he could think of for what happened to his men; for what they allowed to happen to his men. He cursed himself for being weak ( _ifonlyIwerestrongerabetterCaptainI’veletthemalldownohGodwhydidyouletmelive_ ) and he tried to escape from the great looming shapes that would melt in and out of the shadows. He would weep like a child after he couldn’t take the bright, yellow eyes leering at him from the darkness. He would dream of running on powerful legs, with big, white, sharp teeth, and great, gleaming claws that could take down any foe. He could escape danger, in his dreams. He grew to love sleep. He was strong. His shoulder didn’t hurt and his leg was fine. All his men were there, in his dreams - laughing over a stupid joke, or nudging and winking after a pretty girl walked by. He would never hurt them. Why, then, would his great claws and powerful teeth end of clamping around his men? He would never hurt them.

He would never hurt anyone.

 

Nearly three weeks later, John stood at a dusty wooden desk in the UK embassy, his left arm in a sling and his right clutching a cane. His left hand weakly held a file folder containing his paperwork - and plane ticket home. The stern-looking woman behind the desk stamped a few more papers and allowed John to hand over the file folder.

“Well, seems everything is in order here, Captain Watson.” John’s face flushed with embarrassment and anger.

“...I’m not really a Captain anymore.” 

“Well, in this building you are. A car is waiting outside for you. Thank you for all you’ve done for your country, Captain.” The woman adjusted her glasses. John pursed his lips.

“Um, thank you.” He still felt weak after his treatment. He was barely healed, really - well, he felt like it - but they had deemed him fine enough to travel, filed his paperwork in record time, and got ready to send him back to the UK. Said they needed the bed, a nurse had explained. Medical discharge, is what they called it. Unfit for the army. John blinked, his mind still fuzzy. “ Excuse me,” he asked. “I remember a nurse saying there was...um, well, there was one survivor.” He swallowed around the lump that appeared in his throat. “Cunningham. Ethan Cunningham, he was our field navigator. Did he, well...make it?” The woman looked at him with sympathy and pulled out a file folder.

“Cunningham...sadly, no. A more internal sect of the military came for his body, which has already been sent back to London. That’s all the information we have, unfortunately. We are, of course, so sorry for the rest of your squadron.”

_No you’re not, you ugly_ harpy John thought bitterly to himself, and quickly shook the thought out of his head. It wasn’t healthy to carry around that kind of anger. He knew that, yet it was much harder in practice than in theory. The sound of a car horn broke his thoughts.

“That would be your car, Captain. Have a safe trip back home!”

Home. He didn’t really have one anymore. The army had helped him get some small, pale bedsit; something that his meager army pension could afford, but it was hardly a home. It was a house. An ugly, man-made box for John to waste away in, with his injured shoulder and bum leg. John didn’t know what he was going to do. 

Maybe the therapist he was supposed to see back in London would help him sort these things out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The heat is on! Things are gonna get reeeeaaaal ugly from here on in.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading my awful story, you guys! XD I was blown away from all the kudos and hits; you guys are great! ♥  
>  I'm writing as fast as I can; but I like having a buffer - I already have four chapters done, but it looks like I'll give myself a week in between postings. Also, I'd really like to illustrate parts of this, so let's see if I can figure out how to do that... :3

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John paced around his drab, bachelor apartment, and peered out the window at the darkening sky. Drab, faded curtains hung in front of the window, giving a poor excuse at privacy, and the only ceiling light he had kept flickering. 

Even his pacing was embarrassing: _thump, CLUNK, thump, CLUNK_. He couldn’t even pace angrily because of his stupid cane. He had his first therapy session two days ago after settling in; Ella was the doctor’s name. She was very nice - very pretty, too - but had a gentle sternness about her, like a mother tiger dealing with an ornery cub. She had asked John all the usual questions, and despite an hour of gentle prodding, John hardly spoke more than a handful of words. 

She didn’t need to know about the crippling failure he felt. She had no business knowing that his leg, the one that looked like it went through a wheat thresher, had healed in a little over a week. She didn’t need to know that despite it physically healing, pain still shot up his spine whenever he put his weight on it. And she certainly didn’t need to know about the dreams - the dreams of gunfire and hot sand, and the dreams of running on powerful new legs, of smelling things he could never smell before, of hunting. 

Oh, the hunting dreams were his favourite! He felt deliciously _invincible_ ; like he could take a Sherman tank in a fist fight. The feeling of stalking his prey - sometimes it was someone he knew, sometimes it was an animal (one time it was Julia Child, but he didn’t really know what to make of that), but the bliss that exploded in his brain when he was finally successful! Hot blood would gush into his mouth, and his teeth would crunch, rip and tear through flesh like a hot knife through butter, and he would feel so satisfied.

John shook his head angrily. “I have to get out of here....this bloody gray box is driving me mad.” So he grabbed his coat and keys (no wallet; he didn’t want to tempt himself to spend what little money he had) and left, slamming the door in his wake.

 

John was angry. So, so angry, and he had no idea why. Angry at life, perhaps? Angry at himself? His inabilities and incompetence? What did it matter. All he could focus on was that his blood felt red-hot underneath his skin. He was sweating enough for it to nearly soak through his undershirt, and his pulse thrummed in his ears. 

What was going on with him? His vision blurred momentarily as he looked up into the cool night sky and _oh_.

The full moon hung above him, bathing him in a seductive glow. It seemed to take pleasure in his discomfort and a few lone clouds drifted out of the way. John grit his teeth, and, with an inhuman surge of adrenaline, took off like a shot down the sidewalk, earning a few curses thrown at him from passersby. His cane clattered uselessly to the ground as he ran. He didn’t care where he went, his legs seemed to know where to take him. 

That moon, hanging up there and mocking him. It was exactly one month after his comrades had been brutally killed. How dare the moon show it’s face before he was done grieving. How _dare_ it! The sheer audacity made him even angrier, which only seemed to propel him faster down the now-empty streets. Part of his mind gibbered with sorrow and fear at the trauma of losing his men only thirty days ago, but the white-hot fury drowned out everything else. 

John screamed with rage into the night, and that was the last thing he remembered as the moon smiled wickedly upon him.

 

“Ooooh...oh God...my head...”

John grimaced and blinked blearily against the bright morning sun, smacking his mouth loudly. His mouth felt and tasted like he had eaten a bag full of medical waste, and his muscles felt like he had run a marathon. His right leg burned and twinged angrily, snapping him out of his half-asleep state. John sat stock-still amongst the bushes he had somehow found himself in - stark naked, and covered nearly head-to-toe in dried, flaking blood.   
John was not a squeamish man; he was an army doctor for goodness sake, but he had to clamp his hands over his mouth to keep from screaming in sheer terror. “What...what? What happened?” he whispered to himself. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he rose a shaking left hand to part the bushes in front of his face. Early morning joggers huffed down the cement paths, and women with their baby strollers and eight-dollar lattes chatted happily to their friends. John squinted at a sign a bit down the path. “Hyde Park,” he mumbled. “how did I end up in Hyde Park? What the hell happened to me?”

John’s mind raced a mile a minute. First step was getting home. Okay, how could he do that? He was surrounded by early morning athletes and new mothers who would decidedly _not_ appreciate a blood-covered man with his beans and frank hanging out. Mercifully, a sleeping homeless man was dozing beneath a tree not far away. John wiped his hands on the grass to gather the morning dew and scrubbed his face with it. Hardly perfect, but it was a start.

“Pssst! Hey! Hey you! Sir? Excuse me, sir?” John frantically motioned to the man from the bushes. The grizzled man eventually popped a lazy eye open, and once he caught sight of John, rose to walk over to him. The hobo regarded John with confusion and wariness.

“Eh...you okay, buddy?” the gruff man wondered, peering at John. 

“Um, uh, yes! Heh, yeah, yeah, it’s...” John fumbled for an excuse. “it’s my friends. You see, I’m a med student, that is to say, ah, we’re...all...med students, and I suppose they thought it would be really funny to get me plastered and throw me in the park here!” The homeless man nodded thoughtfully.

“And the, uh...blood?” he asked.

“Part of the prank. It’s fake. I also...have...film makeup friends. Who are also med students. They, uh, they did that before. Before med school.” John stammered.

“And the lack of sensible clothin’?”

“Also part of the prank. They...they are a wacky bunch, I’ll tell you..!” John laughed nervously. “So, um, Mr...”

“Alan.”

“ Mr. Alan, sir, I was wondering...as one helpful citizen to another, would I be able to, ah, borrow your lovely trench coat?” he finished lamely. Alan sniffed loudly.

“And what’s innit for me, eh?” John cringed. “Not like I can exactly open my great oak wardrobe and grab me another trench coat, if ya know what I mean.”

“Follow me back to my place,” John blurted, “and I’ll give you fifty pounds for it. Please, I just...I can’t be seen like this. Please.” Alan sniffed again and spat on the ground. To John’s relief, he began shrugging off the filthy trenchcoat.

“Don’t try to pull a fast one,” Alan warned. “Ah got friends all over who won’t be too please if ya try to take advantage of a poor ol’ homeless man.” John shook his head. He wasn’t _that_ low a person.

Miraculously, John made it back home in one piece. People passing by regarded him oddly - he was covered in dirt, filth, and a shabby trench coat that smelled like bad milk, and he was being followed by a drifter - but he didn’t care. After he paid the man, John jumped in the shower, and stood under the scalding stream until the hot water ran out. He eventually slumped to the floor in defeat, his frightened tears getting lost in the now-cold water.

Was this what Ella had called post-traumatic stress syndrome? Had he lashed out at someone last night, someone that didn’t deserve the depths of his anger and self-hatred? Was he truly going mad?

He tried not to vomit in fright all over his living room when his television reported that a homeless man was found torn to pieces several blocks from his bedsit, blurry photos obtained by the press a near-perfect copy to what had happened that night in Afghanistan. 

 

A week later, John was hobbling around out in the city, trying to keep his mind away from what happened that full moon night. The sound of his name broke his reverie.

“John? John Watson?”

John whirled around - he knew that voice, but couldn’t place where from. “John!” the person called again. Running up the sidewalk to meet him was a plump, bespectacled man with a friendly face.

“Stamford, Mike Stamford! We went to Bart’s together!” John smiled warmly for what felt like the first time in weeks. 

“Yes, yes, I remember, Mike. Hello.” Mike shook his hand, genuinely happy to see John again. A few minutes later had the two of them sitting on a bench, Mike generously having bought a coffee for the both of them. John sipped at his hot drink awkwardly. Mike cleared his throat.

“So, I heard you were off somewhere getting shot at! What happened?” John pursed his lips together in a thin line.

“...I got shot.” Stamford’s face went pale.

“Oh...I’m so sorry, mate. You, ah...you alright now?” John gripped his cane tightly, the lines on his face becoming more prominent. 

“Yeah, Mike. I’m fine. It’s all...it’s all fine.” Stamford continued his genial line of questions, completely oblivious to John’s shifting body language. It’s not that he didn’t like Stamford - the man was gentle, personable and kind - but this had been the first real social interaction John had since he first slid out of the hospital bed back in Afghanistan.

“So, you living back in London?” Mike asked. John smiled sadly.

“Nah, can’t afford London. Not on my little army pension.” Mike regarded him quietly. 

“That’s not the John Watson I know! You love the city!” John shrugged. “Well, what about a flatmate or something? Have someone around to help take the sting off the rent?” John laughed harshly, sounding more like a bark than was comfortable. 

“Honestly, Stamford...who’d want me for a flatmate?” Mike’s eyes twinkled as he smiled at a private joke. John frowned. “What?” 

“You’re the second person to say that to me today, y’know.”

“Really? Who’s the first?”

 

John hobbled through the door Stamford held open for him and internally bristled (really, he wasn’t an eighty year-old lady, he could get the door himself _thank you very much_ ). He took a look around the room, smiling fondly at the memories. “Bit different from my day,” he mumbled. His eyes swiveled at the same time a scent wafted into his nose - how he knew it was a _scent_ was beyond him - but nothing else could describe the idea of cinnamon, chemicals, and rain-soaked earth as it flitted about the room. 

Standing at a lab desk was one of the most striking men John had ever seen. He was tall and lanky, with alabaster skin and soft, dark curly hair cut short. Piercing gray blue eyes studied him as he hobbled in on his cane, seeming to read his every movement. John was absently aware that the man was complaining that his phone wasn’t working, and had pulled out his own to offer to him.

The man smiled somewhat awkwardly. “Oh...thanks.” He fired off a text with lightning-quick reflexes and handed the phone back to John.

“This is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is John Watson, an old friend of mine.” Mike smiled a genuine smile as he watched the two men interact. The other man, Sherlock, scanned him over once more.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” John blinked stupidly and looked at Mike, who shrugged. 

“Um...Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you..?” Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

“I’ll tell you everything - tomorrow. Tell me, do you enjoy the violin?” John blinked again.

“Erm...yeah, it’s alright. Why?”

“Sometimes I play the violin when I’m thinking, and at odd hours. I sometimes won’t talk for days at a time. I figure flatmates should know the worst about each other, wouldn’t you agree?” he finished in his smooth baritone. John realized he’d been gaping like a fish. 

“Hang on...are you...asking me to move in with you?” he asked incredulously. Sherlock either didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore him, as he put an arm through a dark grey Belstaf coat. Sherlock smirked at him.

“Meet me tomorrow at 221B Baker Street. Do try not to be late, hmm?” he finished with a wink. John started at Mike after Sherlock left. 

“What the hell did I just get myself into?”

 

John waited patiently outside of the aforementioned address, watching people as they went about their daily lives. Sherlock eventually rolled up in a sleek black cab, and, after paying the cabbie, trotted up the stairs to John. “Ah, John, glad you could make it.” John shook his hand, a good-natured smile on his face.

“Ah, thanks for having me. This is a really nice neighbourhood, but I’m really not sure I can afford this...” Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s alright. I get 221B at an excellent rate. The landlady owes me a favour after I helped her husband out with a death sentence.” John blinked.

“Oh, you got him free?”

“Oh no, I assured it.” John swallowed nervously as the door opened, revealing a small-statured, sweet looking older woman. 

“Sherlock!” she cooed, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “And who is this handsome young man?” John blushed.

“Ah, John Watson, ma’am...pleased to meet you.” She smiled warmly, giving John a small pang in his chest. He hadn’t called his mum in a while.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. John is to be my new flatmate. Come along, John.” John still wasn’t too sure about the whole ‘flatmate’ thing. He still had no idea what had happened that night. Did he end up going on some kind of rage bender? Was there alcohol involved? Was it all a crazy dream that he couldn’t wake up from? He wasn’t a bad roommate by any means, but if he ended up cannibalizing Sherlock in a fit of rage, well, he was going to feel just awful about it. Sherlock was a very...interesting person.

John hobbled up the stairs (he had gotten a new cane from the pharmacist, after making up an embarrassing story has to how he lost his) and breathed in the essence of 221B Baker Street.

 

It was an unusual flat; a layout unlike any he had ever seen. The walls were decorated with terribly clashing wallpapers, and stacks of papers, dusty books and magazines were everywhere. The windows were grimy, and the kitchen appeared to be more of a chemistry lab than a place to prepare a meal. It wasn’t dirty, per say, but it was certainly cluttered, and could do with an airing out. Sherlock glided up beside him.

“I liked it so much that I decided to move my things in right away. Hope you don’t mind.” John smiled politely. 

“No, no, it’s...fine. This is a very nice place.” And it honestly was. It reminded him of a cross between an old antique shop and his favourite nanna’s sitting room. Mrs. Hudson patted John gently on the back.

“There’s a second bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needin’ one, dear.” she said with a wink. John flushed again; he had a bad feeling this was going to become a running gag.

“...Of course we’ll be needing two bedrooms. We’re not...we’re not like that.” 

“Oh, don’t worry! We’ve got all sorts ‘round here! Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones!” she informed. John rolled his eyes, and continued surveying the room. A file folder on the coffee table caught his eye - or more the notes on the file folder - the words ‘large dog?’ and ‘wild animal’ set off alarm bells. With shaking hands, he picked up the folder and opened it, only to be greeted with horrific crime scene photos. A homeless man, not far from his bedsit, had been torn to shreds. The police report said it was an escaped wild animal of some kind, or someone owned a large, vicious dog that had gotten loose. 

“What do you think, John?” John jumped, snapped out of his reverie. He hoped he didn’t look as afraid as he felt.

“Um, what do you mean?” Sherlock smirked.

“You’re an army doctor. You’ve seen a lot of violent deaths, though I don’t think animal attacks are your forte. What can you glean from these photos?” John licked his lips nervously.

“Um...” He took a deep breath. “I think that these claw marks must be from a large animal, or...someone with unbelievable strength and access to strange weapons. The...victim...” He trailed off, looking into the empty eyes of the unfortunate man in the photo. “The victim most likely died from his trachea being torn open. He probably, ah...drowned in his own blood before dying of actual blood loss.” Sherlock nodded approvingly.

“Good, good. I can tell we’re going to work very well together. Embarrassed as I am to admit it, this case has had me stumped. The positions of the claw marks are consistent with an albeit large human hand, yet blades couldn’t have caused these kind of rends and tears. The strength and manic patterns are somewhat consistent with someone on a bad drug trip, but something else is missing, and I don’t know what it is yet...” Sherlock snatched the file out of John’s hand and tossed it on another paper stack. John wasn’t sure if the man was more concerned about his privacy, or the fact that his ego couldn’t take admitting he was stumped on that case. He assumed the latter.

“So this is what you do, eh?” John asked. “...Solve police cases? Like a private investigator?” Sherlock side-eyed him.

“Actually, I’m a consulting detective. I’m the only one in the world; I invented the job.”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock grinned, all teeth, and took a deep breath.

“Yesterday, when we first met, and I asked ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ you seemed surprised. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room — said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists — you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic — wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan — Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John balked, his mouth hanging open like a frog waiting for a fly. Mrs. Hudson smiled proudly. “I wasn’t kidding when I said the police don’t consult amateurs.” John was floored. 

“That...” he gaped. “was _amazing_.” Sherlock looked startled.

“Really? You think so?”

“Yes, it was... _extraordinary_. Quite extraordinary.” John breathed the compliment with reverence. Sherlock preened, his cheeks flushing slightly. Mrs. Hudson tottered about, moving things around in a desperate attempt to tidy up. 

“What about these serial suicides, eh, Sherlock? Bet you’re just pleased as punch that this gives you something to do. There have been three already...what a shame.”

“Four.”

“Sorry?”

“Four. There’s a police car outside.”

The sound of a man thumping up the stairs grabbed John’s attention. Standing in the doorway was a middle-aged man, with a hard face, silver hair, and warm brown eyes. He looked very tired, very overworked, and in sore need of a coffee and a nap. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Lestrade. There’s been another, but why are you here?” Lestrade ran a hand through his short hair. 

“This one left a note. Will you come?” Sherlock smiled with barely concealed glee. 

“I will, but not in a police car. I’ll follow you in a cab.” He glanced at John. “By the way - John Watson, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Lestrade, John Watson.” The two men nodded politely to each other. Lestrade charged back down the stairs and out of the flat, and Sherlock lept into the air in pure joy. “Four serial suicides! Oooh it’s Christmas! Come along, John - you deducing that photo has got my gears going again. I’d like your opinions on these ones, as well.” John fumbled with his cane. 

“You want me to go with you? As in, to a crime scene?” 

“Is that not what I just said? Yes, yes! Come now, down the stairs! The game is on!”

 

And that is how John Watson, damaged army veteran, met Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, and the man who would become the center of his world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruh-roh! This will be the first transformation that John is at least [somewhat] awake for.  
> Guess I should roll out a warning that this chapter is a bit squicky...
> 
> As always, thanks again for reading! The story is coming along nicely. I've decided that if I manage to finish the whole thing in the next while, I'll just post it all in one go, as opposed to a chapter a week. I do that for emergency buffer reasons - like this week, where I was bedridden for two days straight with a fever. :s
> 
> Anyhoo, see you all in the funny pages! ♥

In the span of not even forty-eight hours, John had moved into 221B, helped solve four serial suicides, met the core homicide investigation team of Scotland Yard, had his limp cured (“It was psychosomatic in nature, John.”), was again assumed to be Sherlock’s boyfriend (“I’m not his date!”), met a man who seemed more of a real-life Bond villain than Sherlock’s brother, and shot a cabbie who was going to poison his new flatmate.

All in all, he’d had a productive couple of days. 

John reminisced while he made two cups of tea. He used a spoon to squeeze the last precious drops out of each tea bag and mulled over what had happened, and who he had met. He liked Lestrade; he was good man, with a strong sense of justice, a sterling work ethic, and really - anyone who could put up with Sherlock for five years must have the patience of a saint. Sally Donovan, a sergeant, was another story. John also couldn’t doubt that she must have a will of iron - being a woman of colour in the police force can’t be easy, and she was a strong, fierce woman who obviously loved her job. What he didn’t like was her attitude towards them. He was sure there was a history between those two that he’d inquire about later, but something about her riled John up.

Why was he so protective of Sherlock after just a few days? Something in the back of mind had latched onto the man, and he wasn’t sure what it was, or why it liked him. 

Donovan’s...cohort? Coworker? Companion? Well, John wasn’t sure how to label him, but Anderson, one of the field forensics workers, really rubbed him the wrong way. Everything about him, from his nasally voice to the way he smelled ( _What is it with smells nowadays? My nose was never this sensitive._ ) grated on John’s nerves. Again, there was also that “protect Sherlock” factor that threatened to boil over every time that man came in earshot. He hoped he wouldn’t have to see him too much.

Then there was Mycroft. Another Holmes, he had later found out, and Sherlock’s older brother, to be exact. He was, well...interesting. John poured milk into his tea, sipping at the hot liquid to taste-test. He was obviously a man of considerable power, ‘minor position in the British government’ be damned. But for all that, John had stood his ground, despite his jabs at his and Sherlock’s rapidly growing friendship, and something else that the man kept alluding to. He knew about Afghanistan, that much was certain, but John felt like he knew more, like John was involved in some great conspiracy that only he knew about. It made his skin crawl, especially considering he had Sherlock’s same scrutinizing gaze. Did he really know something John didn’t know? Or was he just lording over John because he could? 

“Thank you for the tea, John.” John blinked back to reality. 

“Oh, no problem. So,” he asked, leaning on the couch to look over Sherlock’s shoulder. “what’s on the agenda today?” Sherlock sneered in annoyance.

“Unfortunately, all the good murderers and criminals are tucked away snugly in their beds.” Sherlock placed his laptop on the coffee table and sprawled across the couch dramatically, like a victorian woman on the verge of fainting. “If we don’t get a case soon I am going to go _mad_ , John. Mad! Well, that is if my brain doesn’t stagnate into a festering pile of goo, my body rotting away, forgotten, but most certainly bored.” John rolled his eyes and playfully smacked Sherlock on the arm. 

“Stop being such a big baby. You finished a case not two days ago!” John sipped his tea, relishing the smell. “Why don’t you...watch some telly? Or...do you have a backlog? Y’know, cold cases? Like that show on channel 32?” The detective shot straight up off the couch and made a mad dash for one of his many shelves.

“Brilliant, John! Yes! A cold case, a cold case...Ooh, what could I possibly work on...” John smiled, happy and proud that he could help his new friend out of his funk. He eased himself down into what was quickly becoming ‘his’ armchair and reached for the remote. 

A few minutes later, an alarmingly violent crime scene photo was shoved into his field of view. John choked on his tea, and shoved the photo out of his face. 

“What the hell, Sherlock?!” John spat. He recognized that photo; it was of the homeless man who was torn to pieces. “What are you doing ramming this in my face?” Sherlock smiled, his eyes manic yet calculating.

“You seemed awfully knowledgeable about this photo the last time. Take another look at it; you may come up with something.” He paused thoughtfully. “Actually, I highly doubt you’ll come up with anything new, you are of average intelligence, and--oh, don’t look at me like that. In any case, you’ve proven so far to be a very good sounding board for my thoughts, so feel free to throw any ideas out there. Well, except for the really stupid ones.”

“Sherlock, you know I’m more than happy to help how I can, but can we work on another case?” John shoved the file folder across the table with his foot. “I have a bad feeling about this one.” Sherlock pouted. John hadn’t even known the man for a week, but he could feel a tantrum hanging in the air.

Honestly, it was like dealing with a five year-old (well, a brilliant, larger-than-life and exceedingly handsome five year-old). John took a very pointed slurp of his tea, and made himself comfortable. Sherlock gave a mighty scowl, and flounced off to the kitchen.

“Fine.” He complained. “I’ll work on some experiments I’ve got going in the kitchen. I certainly hope you don’t need anything in here, as it’s going to get quite _messy._ ” For added effect, Sherlock attempted to slam the sliding glass door, but considering it was old, it simply glided on rusty hinges until it pathetically hit its counterpart.

John took the steadying breath of the eternally patient, and turned the telly on. Oh boy, Faulty Towers! He loved Faulty Towers.

John wasn’t sure how much longer his patience could hold out today.

Normally, he had near inhuman reserves of the stuff - you had to, to know people like Sherlock, and his brash, violent, alcoholic and lesbian sister. You just had to let stuff go by. Water off a ducks’ back, and all that. He was also a proud Englishman, and proud Englishmen just did not let their tempers get the better of him. 

He tried to tell himself that in a calming mantra as he stared at the human eyeballs floating through the unknown mire of...whatever it was. It wasn’t the eyeballs that bothered him - what boiled his blood was that the concoction was floating around in his Royal Army Medical Corps mug, a very personal and sacred memento of his service.

He normally never got this angry, but there was something about today that made every little thing hit on every little nerve. Maybe it was the rain.

John gripped his shaking hands on the countertop and leaned forward. “Sherlock?” he called, his voice shaking with barely contained rage. The man in question poked his head into the kitchen.

“Ah, John, there you are. Oh, and you found my eyes! Perfect!” John swatted his hand away as the other man reached for the mug.

“Sherlock...” John hissed through gritted teeth. “What...did you do to my mug?”

“John, give those back. It’s for an experiment!”

“And it just _had_ to be in _my_ RAMC mug?”

“A mug is a mug is a mug, John! I’ll go out and buy you a new one, if you’re going to get that bent out of shape about it.” John grit his teeth so hard he wondered if he was going to need new ones after tonight.

“It is not just a mug, Sherlock! It was a gift from my squadmates! You know, my _dead squadmates?!_ ” Sherlock reached an impossibly long arm around John’s body and snatched the mug off the counter.

“Oh, stop complaining! You and your ‘sentiment,’ John. If this situation won’t prove to you how distracting these kinds of things are--”

“Sherlock, _give it back!_ ” John reached up, attempting to grab the precious object, but Sherlock moved just out of the way.

“Alright! Stop complaining. Here you go--” he was cut off because John lunged at him again in an attempt to get the mug. With Sherlock caught somewhat unawares, he lost his grip, and the mug fell to kitchen floor, shattering into several pieces. Eyeballs, goo, and ceramic chunks littered the floor as the blood drained from John’s face. Sherlock at least had the good mind to look sheepish. “Oh. I’m...I’m sorry, John. It was an honest mistake, I didn’t...mean to...”

Whatever had been simmering beneath the surface; whatever unknown portion of his brain had watched the situation unfold, had come rushing to the forefront, fueled by John’s anger. Before he was aware of what he was doing, Sherlock found himself pinned to the fridge with a bang, shaking the jars and bottles on top of it. What stunned him more was that he was dangling at least two feet off the ground, John holding him up by the front of his shirt. John looked positively feral, his lip curling over oddly gleaming teeth, hot breath in Sherlock’s face. The detective gaped. “John, I said I was sorry! John!” The doctor slammed Sherlock against the fridge once more, earning a startled cry from Sherlock.

“You listen to me, Sherlock,” John growled. “you will respect my space when I tell you to. You will respect my boundaries when I tell you to, and you _will_ respect _me_ when I tell you to!”

The only sound in the kitchen was the heavy breathing of the two men. Sherlock broke the silence, his voice shaking only slightly.

“John...your eyes...”

John blinked several times, and dropped Sherlock to the floor, horror and disgust causing bile to rise up his throat. John covered his face with his hands.

“Oh...oh God...Sherlock...” he croaked. “I’m so...I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t mean...Ooh God..!” With a choking sob, John ran out of the flat, coat and umbrella disregarded. Sherlock sank to the floor, initially afraid, but disbelieving - John was a strong man, capable of great harm - he had shot a man not even a day after meeting him - but he never thought that killer instinct would have been turned on him. After a month living with him, Sherlock had seen that John was a good-natured and easy-going man, always willing to offer a smile and generally went along with whatever Sherlock wanted. And his eyes, oh, his eyes! John’s eyes were normally a deep sea green, and would darken to a stormy blue-black if he was in a mood. But the way John had looked at him, it was like staring into the face of a great, wild animal. Sherlock had felt genuinely afraid for the first time in awhile.

Clearly, his new flatmate was not being entirely honest with him.

They would have a talk about this when John got back.

Whenever that was.

 

John raced down the streets of central London, rain beating down from the dark skies. He felt sick and ashamed; he had never snapped at anyone like that before. Sure, he’s been mad before, but never to the point where it turned violent. He just had to run; he had to work off whatever strange energy he had swirling about inside of him, then get home and talk to Sherlock.

Maybe he would stop by the morgue and convince the nice girl who worked there, Molly, to give him a liver or something. That would be a nice apology gift.

The feel of his heart thudding against his chest and his lungs screaming for air felt good; a sharp pain and aching limbs giving him a heady punishment for how he had acted earlier. He didn’t care where he was going - all he knew was he had to run.

Was this another PTSD episode, like what happened last month? Was he going to wake up naked, scared and confused in a strange part of town like last time?

Was someone going to get hurt?

He had to have a good, long discussion with his therapist. Pride be damned; if people were winding up hurt, then he had to stop himself, no matter how ashamed or scared he felt.

The dark night and rain made visibility almost non-existent, except when the occasional car went by. It was a dreadful night; unusually cold for September, and the rain was sharp with the cold against his skin. His whole body felt hot - not because of the running, but it felt like his veins were on fire, and it threatened to burst to the surface, tearing him apart. John eventually stopped running and rested against a grimy brick wall, his breath puffing up in chilly little clouds against the street lights. He cast a furtive glance around while he tried to catch his breath; he had no idea where he was, but it looked to be a less-than-savoury part of town.

Another wave of pain and nausea racked his body. He stumbled into an alleyway, grateful that no one was around to see him like this, as he dry heaved onto the ground, clutching his sides painfully. He felt hot, sick, and scared; he had no idea what was going on. His vision was swimming, and there was that anger again, just like last month.

Just like last month.

John gasped in realization as another wave of agony raked through his body - tonight must be a full moon. He assumed these ‘episodes’ were connected with it in some way, considering that he had suffered the greatest trauma in his adult life underneath its watchful gaze.

He quickly retracted his thought when he saw something drop to the ground at his feet.  
They were small, and pink - first one, then two, then three. John knelt down for a closer look.

They were his fingernails.

He held his hand up to his face and watched with horror as the fourth, and finally the pinky, fell off, revealing sharp, bony points that were beginning to jut up from underneath the flesh. John shouted in terror and jerked his other hand off the wall; the same thing was happening. His teeth suddenly felt too big for his mouth, and raised a fumbling hand to check.

They were all ending in points, and continuing to grow.

John choked out another sob and fell to the filthy ground, that molten feeling under his skin finally breaking through. It was agonizing, but felt oddly satisfying at the same time, like an addict getting a hit. He dimly realized that his skin was splitting around his body, and that molten feeling was his blood.

He looked down at the ground, and watched as his now-inhuman fingers grew and stretched along with his hands. His back legs, now nearly free of his shoes and jeans, shifted and popped, the bones stretching and cracking. John was so far gone he couldn’t even muster the energy to scream; it was all being redirected to fuel whatever was happening to him.

John could feel his face stretch, his sinuses exploding in pain, and his crossed eyes watched as his face contorted into a long, lupine snout. His skin was malleable, he dimly realized, as his ears migrated a few inches up his head and extended into long, fur covered points. His ribcage was expanding, his arms were stretching, and he could feel his tailbone uncurling until it eventually broke the skin.

He eventually collapsed to the ground, his cries of agony coming out garbled from the revolting, incomplete mass of flesh, fur and bone. He was in pain; so much pain. He just wanted it to stop. Whatever sound he could muster he would eject, whether it was human or not. He hurt all over; he just wanted it to stop.

John could feel the last of his clothing tear off, only to have the warmth quickly replaced by a long, shaggy pelt, as each hair follicle on his body bulged and forced the new growth out. His muscles rippled and swelled in size, as the last of his joints finally settled in place. John took a shuddering breath through his mouth and nose, snot, saliva and blood hanging from his face. A wolfish wheeze erupted from his mangled mouth as the world exploded with information. Everything was new - could see things by smelling them, things that no human could ever come close to experiencing. He was strong, and fast, and...hungry.

That was the last human thought John Watson’s brain could muster, before it gave way to the wolf.

It was a quiet night, all things considered. Jerry was warm - well, warm as one could be on a night like this - and he was with good company - which is saying something in this part of town. The grubby man rubbed his gloved hands together and held them back towards the open vent, grateful for the almost too-hot steam that rose from them.

Not the best night to be homeless, but far from the worst.

Jerry grinned at his two companions - Josh and Ernie - who smiled back at him. They were good people, Josh and Ernie. The little community that they were a part of was full of good people - they just needed a second chance (and maybe a shower). They took care of their own, and did what they could. Heck, just recently they helped one woman get her life back - she was so happy to see her little girl again. Jerry smiled at the memory. He wondered how his kids were doing, with their own lives and families.

The cacophony of garbage bins spilling all over a nearby alleyway drew all three men to their feet. A pitiful, wet-sounding growl emanated from behind the bins. Ernie lifted up his grubby baseball cap.

“Eh...hello? All right there?” he called out into the darkness. The banging and clanging continued. Josh frowned.

“Sounds like a sick dog’r’somethin.’” He made some kissing noises. “ ‘ey poochie! Poochie poochie! Y’all right, poochie? S’okay, we ain’t gunna ‘urt ya! C’mere boy!”

The growl got louder. Jerry frowned and put and hand on his friends’ arm.

“Aye, it might be hurt. Mebbe we should..?” He flicked his head in the opposite direction. Josh scowled and gently pushed his friends’ hand away.

“Bu’ wha’ if ‘e’s hurt, Jerry? Y’know ‘ow I feel ‘bout animals!” Ernie joined in with his friend as they continued making cooing and kissing noises. Luminescent yellow eyes suddenly pierced the darkness, causing the men to gasp. Their faces contorted with fear when the pair of eyes lifted off the ground, settling at a height of near seven feet off the ground.

A snout full of gleaming white teeth spread below the eyes, splitting the darkness as it stepped out of the inky black shadows.

The men turned and ran, screaming as they tripped over themselves as they tried to get away.

They could never run fast enough. The creature was far faster.

Jerry didn’t want his friends to die - they were good people.

That’s what he told himself over and over as he grabbed them and threw them behind him in an attempt to distract it.

They were good people. He was a good person.

He wondered how his kids were doing as dagger-like teeth shattered his skull and tore into his brain matter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, readers! I'm gonna post two whole chapters tonight!   
> I'm actually coming up pretty close to the end where I'll post them all anyways, so I figured I might as well make it worth your while. :)  
> This chapter is kind of dumb at some parts. Please bear with me. :0
> 
> Otherwise, thank you all again SO MUCH for reading! 
> 
> Ah, should also say: this is another icky chapter. Lots of gore and stuff. You've been warned.

\------------------------------------------------

Rain continued to beat against the windows of 221B with unrelenting force, its sound momentarily drowned out by the whistling of a kettle. Sherlock carefully prepared a cup of tea and placed a single piece of brown toast on a plate, and settled at the kitchen table (a table that he had cleaned off - well, some of it). The detective kept leaning out of his chair to stare at the front door of their flat. John had been gone an awful long time. If he was angry enough to stay at a friends’ house or something, then maybe - _just maybe_ \- Sherlock _had_ been a little insensitive the night before. He didn't do it maliciously, he just needed a mug for an experiment, and there was one there, so...he used it.

Perhaps John would be happy to see this - he had cleaned up the mess - and he even slept for 2.73 hours during the night. John was a doctor; he tended to get very fussy and worried that Sherlock never ate or slept. Oh, how thrilled he would be to see this! A (not really) clean kitchen, and to see Sherlock having a cup of tea and a _whole_ piece of toast would surely make John forgive him.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully to himself as he gingerly sipped his tea. He was pretty sure he had this whole flatmate thing down to a science. He was good at science.

 

John Watson stirred fitfully in his sleep. The nightmares were coming back. There was so much blood. So, so much of it.

A police siren howled in the distance.

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade sneezed into his elbow and sniffled loudly. He didn’t mind the rain - he worked and lived in London, for God’s sake - but sometimes, he would much rather go back to sleep in his rickety but warm bed. Well, who wouldn’t, really?

Donovan trotted up to him, the sound of her heels snapping him out of his daze. He lifted his coffee cup in greeting.

“Sergeant. What’s the report?” Donovan frowned.

“It’s not pretty in there, that’s for sure, but you know that already, don’t you?” Lestrade nodded in resignation. Being first on the scene had its...perks. “Anyways, we thought there were only two bodies, but we just found a third. Or, er...” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “what’s left of a third.” Lestrade rubbed a hand over his weary face. He loved London, but sometimes...

“Any word on those hairs Anderson found? The ones that look like they came off a cheap fur coat?” Donovan shook her head.

“Nothing concrete until we get the results back from the lab. Unless you’re ready to call the Freak, if you’re that desperate.” Lestrade shot her a side-eyed glance.

“Yes, Sally, I am that desperate.” he said as he pulled out his mobile. He turned away to drown out the sound of the other officers. “Hello, Sherlock? Yeah, it’s m--yes, I know you prefer texting, but just deal with it. I’m tired.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve got another ‘dog attack’ murder. This one’s worse than the last, and that’s saying something. Alright, see you soon.”

He idly wondered if he could petition some kind of new leash law or something.

Damn dog owners.

 

John awoke with a start as the sound of police sirens screamed by. His heart caught in his throat as he scrambled to his feet, only to slip in a nearby puddle of offal with a loud thud and a curse. He sat stock still in the grime, blood and filth, and watched with bated breath as the red and blue sirens glided by. John began shaking with panic; the cop car was gone, but the scene that lay before him was the stuff of nightmares.

Three men - or, what he assumed to have been three - or men - were strewn about the shabby room. John quickly surveyed his surroundings, the soldier part of his brain overtaking the very real civilian panic attack he was about to have.

Grimy, rotting wood, stripped floorboards, little to no furniture (save a few mouldy mattresses), no electricity, and graffiti everywhere - he must have stumbled into a condemned or abandoned building. He hesitantly glanced out the filthy window - no one was around, and he didn’t recognize the neighbourhood. The sky was a light, hazy gray, and rain fell in a steady stream on the pavement outside.

John shivered against the cold and wet as he sank to the floor, tears cutting a stripe through the dried blood on his face. Body parts were scattered haphazardly across the floor, while bits of skin and intestines were strewn about like party decorations. John’s foot nudged what he was pretty sure was a scalp. The doctor whipped his head around and vomited violently on the floor, momentarily choking on what he was sure was part of a finger. John heaved a sob, tears, snot and vomit slowly dribbling to the floor.  
“What...what’s happening to me?” he pleaded. “What am I doing? Oh God...please...what did I do...”

_Kill yourself._

John’s head shot up.

_Kill yourself,_ a part of his mind crooned. _Kill yourself, John. You’ll just keep hurting people anyways, John. No one really wanted you around, John. You’ll be free of this nightmare, John. All of the nightmares, John._

John shook his head violently. He was truly going mad.

But...if he did, then the voice would be right about one thing - no one else would get hurt.

_NO._

John blinked.

_NO, JOHN. YOU ARE I, AND I AM YOU. YOU LIVE. YOU STRONG. WE STRONG. YOU NOT DIE._

John swallowed audibly and closed his eyes, running the conversation in his head.

“Who...who are you? Why are you in my head?”

_YOU ARE I AND I AM YOU. I AM PART OF YOU THAT STRONG. NOT WEAK, LIKE HUMAN. YOU WILL LIVE. I COMMAND IT. NEED YOU AND YOU NEED ME._

“I don’t understand.”

_NOT UNDERSTAND. FEEL. INSTINCT. GO BACK TO DEN WITH MATE. HOME. SAFE._

The voice faded (or lay dormant; John wasn't too sure).

John wasn't sure what it meant by ‘mate,’ but it...this...was right. John wasn't a coward. There was no denying the gut-wrenching, crippling guilt he felt. There was obviously a pattern to this - every full moon he would...change. He would be different. The other part of his brain would take over, the ‘anger’ or...whatever it called itself. Perhaps he could lock himself up? He would look into that as soon as he got back home.

John took a steadying breath, more tears streaming down his face.

He was no stranger to death, or killing. He had taken lives in service of his country, and he had saved them. It wasn't pleasant, or easy, but John prided himself on being the sort of bloke that could buckle down and do what needed to be done.

Another shaking breath was pushed out of his lungs as he crawled across the floor. He didn't trust his legs to carry his weight just yet. He choked back another sob as he gathered the most undamaged pieces of the combined clothing of all three people.

“I am so, so, sorry. I never meant to hurt any of you. Please...I can’t ask for forgiveness, but I ask that you...at least rest in peace.”

With shaking hands, he collected what he could of the three homeless men and pushed the squelching mess into a corner. There was no way he could bury any of this; no way to transport it either. This would have to do. He just had to hope no one would find this.

John slid the filthy clothing over his body, washing what he could in collected puddles of dirty rainwater, and began to stumble his way back to Baker Street.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

A cumbersome-looking phone with a slide-out keyboard danced across the coffee table at 221B, buzzing angrily. The little message icon danced excitedly in the corner of the screen, proclaiming in a little red speech bubble that its owner had missed thirteen text messages.

The phone buzzed again, finally plummeting off the table, pinging that a fourteenth had been received.

 

Minutes later, the door to the flat creaked open.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sherlock jammed his phone in his coat pocket, scowling angrily.

“John, where are you?” he hissed to himself. Lestrade shot him a look, and Donovan smiled.

“Where’s your little pet, eh Freak? Maybe he heeded my advice and went off.” Sherlock’s upper lip curled with distaste.

“I could also say Anderson ‘went off’ all over your blouse, judging by the crusted remnants of last nights’ activities. A paper towel soaked with hot water is hardly enough to get that kind of stain out, Sally. Now, if you please, we’re trying to get something done here.” Donovan sputtered with indignation and stormed off. Lestrade sighed.

“Was that really necessary, Sherlock?”

“Of course it was. Now, you said you had something else to show me?”

 

The rain had at least calmed down enough to a steady, misty drizzle as John clambered out of a cab.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” John called as he ran up to the detective. Sherlock looked like he couldn't decide if he was happy or severely annoyed.

“John! Where the hell were you? I texted you sevent--”

“Yeah, seventeen times, I got them. All of them. Look, ah, I’m really sorry about last night. I never lose my cool like that, and, ah, I guess I was just kind of stressed and I took it...out on...you...” John frowned. “What?” Sherlock’s face was inches from his, his brilliant grey eyes darting around his face and body.

“...You showered.” John rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Sherlock, I showered. Practicing basic hygiene is a good thing, remember?” The detective narrowed his eyes. John squirmed under his unrelenting gaze - it was both heady to be the center of that kind of attention, but he simultaneously felt laid bare.

“You scrubbed your face very hard; the skin around your mouth is still red.” He leaned in enough for his lips to be mere inches from John’s mouth. John blushed furiously.

“What the hell, Sherlock?! Yes, I scrubbed my face! I felt...gross when I came home.” he finished lamely.

“Even though you brushed your teeth, I can still smell the barest hint of vomit on your breath, but it’s not alcohol.” John gently pushed the man away, placing a firm hand on his chest.

“Look, I...ate something...” John swallowed. “that didn’t agree with me last night. These things happen; the miracle of the human body and so forth. Let’s just...see this case, alright? I’m here. Let’s do this.” Sherlock studied John for a few more moments before closing his eyes in resignation.

“Very well.”

“So, what happened?” The detective narrowed his eyes.

“It’s another one of those ‘wild dog’ attacks, similar - but not entirely - to the last two.” John could feel his face blanching in terror. He turned his head, hoping to God that Sherlock didn’t notice. “This time there are multiple victims - three in total. Whoever owns this ‘dog’ is getting more bold by going for groups instead of hitting single targets.” Sherlock grabbed a fresh pair of latex gloves out of his coat and led the doctor into the building.

John studied his surroundings. _This doesn’t look familiar at all,_ he pondered. _This is on the other side of town. Could I have really gotten that far, then maybe went back? I just don’t understand what’s going on..._

The scene before him was gruesome. It had, at one point, been a nice house, with a modest-sized backyard that led into a ravine. Now, it appeared as if an eight-foot tall wolverine was let loose in the den. A pile of once-steaming innards lay in a heap on the floor in front of the television, and bones - cracked and sucked dry of marrow - were scattered near the fireplace. Sherlock surveyed the scene, his cold, calculating eyes checking for any missed detail.

“There were three victims here,” he began. “a Mr. and Mrs. Havotshire - Bernie and Elise, respectively - and their daughter, May. Aged twenty-seven; a freelance graphic designer. Parents were 66 and 58, both retired. She was here visiting her parents; apparently a weekly occurrence, according to friends and neighbours.” Sherlock paused; John assumed for dramatic effect. “At approximately 2:30 am this morning, neighbours heard a great deal of crashing and banging. The family assumedly awoke to confront the perp, who turned on them and did...well, what you see before you.” Sherlock frowned and sank into his ‘I’m thinking, please don’t speak’ face. “None of the neighbours said they saw or heard a dog...but why break into a suburban home to kill an entire family _with a dog?_ What am I missing?”

John gave him a sympathetic smile.

“You’ll figure it out, Sherlock. I know you will.”

 

John was on his second shift of locum work at a small clinic when he got the text. His phone buzzed excitedly at the message from none other than his flatmate:

 

Triple homicide at abandoned flat in east side slums. Think it’s another dog attack. Will send address in next text. Come at once.  
SH

 

John nearly dropped the cup of lukewarm tea he had been drinking, the rest of it rising to his throat in a hot burst of guilt and nausea.

Inside, the wolf smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! This one is short, so I thought I would put it up with another.  
> Now, before we begin, let me just say that I researched what I could about brick-built bomb shelters from World War II, but I don't know if there are any left in abandoned neighbourhoods or the like. I know it's super obvious I'm not from the UK (I'm Canadian) but please bear with me and my terrible artistic licensing. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! *muah*

\----------------------------------------

“So...this will do the trick?”

“Yup! Me Grandad said it could stand up to anythin’! You’ll be right as rain in ‘ere.”

John nudged at the creaky steel door with his foot. Billy, one of Sherlock’s favored members of his ‘Homeless Network’, had helped John out with a very unusual request - find somewhere he could ‘be alone’ for one night a month. He had made the excuse saying he needed a quiet space from Sherlock.

He wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that Billy nodded sympathetically.

John wandered the abandoned property and admired the small structure before him - a genuine brick-built bomb shelter from World War II, made for the purposes of protecting the family from the German bombings. Billy had found an abandoned house in a practically condemned neighbourhood; everything was old, dilapidated and destroyed from decades past. Luckily, this old thing was still standing, if not in need of some airing out (there were also several rodent nests and spiderwebs, but he would deal with that later).

If John was truly that violent, and capable of taking apart grown men like they were made of paper, then he thought it wise to find a way to contain himself. He chastised himself for being a coward - he still hadn’t gone back to Ella since he moved in with Sherlock - and continued inspecting the small, but compact structure.

“So, you really need to come all the way out ‘ere? Just for some peace an’ quiet?” John grimaced.

“Yeah, something like that. Thanks for all your help, Billy.” John fished a fifty pound note from his pocket. “Split this amongst the others, yeah?”

 

The wolf growled angrily. It would get another chance to run. Eventually.

All it needed was to wait.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“John? Come here a moment.”

John walked into the living room, pausing to switch on a fan. He didn’t mind the summer heat (try hauling forty kilos of gear around a desert), but he disliked the stale air in the flat. Besides, Sherlock looked like he was about to collapse from heat stroke, though he would never admit it.

“What’s up?” Sherlock steepled his long fingers underneath his chin and peered at John.

“I know what you’re up to.” John’s mouth went dry. Suddenly, the fraying fabric of the chair he eased himself into was much more interesting. “Every month - once a month, and only on the full moon, to be precise - you go out.” John fought to keep his face stoney. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

“...Yeah...I do.”

“It’s very inconvenient,” he continued. “especially if I need you with me on a case. You just simply up and vanish. I’m half-tempted to ask Mycroft if he’s seen anything on the CCTV network, but then that would require me actually speaking to him, which isn’t going to happen.” He paced around the living room, running the loose belt of his blue dressing gown between his fingers. “Plus, it would take all the fun out of me solving it.” The detective was suddenly in front of John, caging him in with his impossibly long arms. John could smell the recently-drunk coffee on Sherlock’s breath. He tried to hide his twitches of fear, and the fact that it felt like his stomach was filled with lead.

Sherlock reached into his housecoat pocket and pulled out a small, plastic coin. “Can you tell me what this is, John?”

“...A poker chip?” John looked sheepish. Sherlock wiggled his fingers, causing the coin to dance along them.

“Yes, John. A poker chip. I found this in your room in your nightstand table.”

“Hang on - what were you doing in my...nevermind.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, and attempted to look more embarrassed than guilty. “Yeah. Yeah, you got me, Sherlock.” He gave a defeated shrug. “Once a month, I meet up with some of my rugby mates from uni and we have a couple of hours of cards. Don’t worry, I’m still good for rent and that sort of thing, if...if you’re worried about that.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, obviously not satisfied with John’s story.

“Poker. With your rugby mates.”

“...Yes.” John squirmed slightly under his piercing gaze.

“Really? Then why is your clothing always so filthy when you come back? And why do are you gone the entire night?” The detective leaned in until he was inches away from John, who was purposefully meeting his gaze.

“One of them lives in a less-than-savoury part of town. We sometimes have a bit of a match, just for old-times sake. I’m not going to wear my good jeans or jumpers to that.”

“You play rugby then poker. In a single night. Coming home the next morning. How long are you games, six hours?”

“...No, but poker can run long.”

“I’ve also found the most curious thing on your laundry - animal hair. Dog hair, it looks like. Actually, more specifically, wolf hair. Or, ‘mostly’ wolf.” Sherlock made air quotes with his fingers, but there was no humor in his action. “Shockingly similar - but not the same - to what Lestrade and I have been finding at all these crime scenes...that just happen to be cropping up on _full moons_.” John clenched his jaw shut. He was pretty sure, as a doctor, that his heart was going to stop any moment from the nervous fear pumping through his veins. “Tell me, John,” he rumbled, standing back up to his full height. “where does your ‘friend’ keep his ‘dog’ that seems to like you enough to leave its hair all over your clothing?”

A pregnant silence hung in the flat between. The sounds of midday traffic floated through the open window, drowning out the sound of their breathing. Another bead of perspiration rolled down John’s temple; he was hyper aware of Sherlock’s stormy eyes watching the path of the drop.

The sudden creak of their front door jolted both men out of their standoff.

“Yoo hoo, boys!” Mrs. Hudson cooed, nudging the door open with her foot. “I’ve got some fresh lemonade I made for you. It’s so humid and awful outside, so I figured you two could do with some refreshment.” John was out of his seat like a rocket, silently thanking the domestic goddess that was Martha Hudson.

“Lemonade sounds absolutely _fantastic_ , Mrs. Hudson. Thank you, thank you so very much.” John eagerly grabbed a tall glass and drank the thing in one go. Mrs. Hudson’s eyebrows lifted marginally.

“My, aren’t you thirsty!” She turned to Sherlock, who was glowering at her to no effect. “Sherlock, stop running this poor man ragged! You just drink up as much as you’d like, John. I can make some more if you two run out.” John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for his shoes.

“I think I’m actually going to run out and do some errands. Thanks again, Mrs. H! You’re the best.”   
He punctuated his compliment with a peck on her cheek. Mrs. Hudson giggled shyly.

“Oh John, you’re such a charmer. You have fun now!”

John raced down the stairs, eager to get out of the flat and away from Sherlocks’ prying. _Dodged a bloody bullet there,_ he thought to himself as he turned the corner off Baker Street. _but he’s going to keep asking questions._

John made a mental note to buy cheap clothing from the thrift store several blocks away and burn them afterwards.

 

“Oh Sherlock, what’s got you in a strop now.”

“Nothing, Mrs. Hudson. “ Sherlock sniffed loudly, prepping himself for a marathon sulk. “Now, wouldn’t you say it’s time for another of your herbal soothers?”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

John stumbled out in the cool morning air, grateful for the sunlight that warmed his skin. The bomb shelter he locked himself in was windowless; he appreciated the fresh air and natural warmth. He shook the morning dew that hadn’t yet dried off the ratty track pants and hoodie he had stashed outside, grateful for the lack of human traffic in this neighbourhood.

Well, if anyone saw him naked, he was far too exhausted and sore to care.

 

John nursed the kink in his neck as the city bus lumbered down the quiet streets. Since he had started locking himself up during his ‘episodes,’ he had started hammering his body against the solid concrete walls in a futile attempt to escape. More than once he had woken up, his fingers achingly sensitive, only to realize that he had torn his own off during his fits by trying to claw the steel door open.

A woman getting on the bus eyed him suspiciously, clutching her handbag closer to her chest. John met her gaze, then turned to look back out the window.

He knew he looked awful - old, dirty second-hand clothing hung off his shorter frame, while nearly-healed cuts and bruises decorated his whole body. He was painfully tired, hungry, and spent in every sense of the word. The strange other part of him, the ‘wolf’ - whatever manifested itself those lunar nights - seemed to be getting...angrier. He knew it wanted to be free; he could feel it - the strange urge to jog across half the city as the moon got closer to waxing on its monthly cycle. The blistering anger it felt when people invaded his territory, personal or otherwise. The possessiveness it felt when someone flirted with Sherlock.

He still didn’t know quite what to make of that.

His mind wandered to his time in the army. The creature that had attacked them had been the stuff out of horror films. After watching swathes of YouTube videos from several movies (watched on a new account he made just for that, which was quickly deleted), John had half-jokingly dubbed himself as a werewolf. He smiled sardonically. Pop culture was so quick to make werewolves the tortured souls - poor men (and a few times women) who would fall prey to their bestial nature. That new drivel that he had seen in bookstores and commercials portrayed them as great, majestic people (all young, handsome and American, of course) which made John grit his teeth in anger.

There was _nothing_ beautiful or majestic about he experienced every moon, that was for damn sure.

 

His mobile gave a chirp in his pocket. John pulled out the device and read the text he had received.

 

Another blasted “dog attack” homicide. Come when you are back from “poker.”  
SH

 

John’s blood ran cold. How could there have been another one? He was locked up! He couldn’t operate doors in that state! Had he somehow gotten out? Had he killed again?

Had some poor, innocent soul begged for their life while John eviscerated them?

John dug his fingernails into his palm until beads of blood dribbled out. It was the least he could do, unfortunately.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6! My favourite chapter!  
> Things are...going to get a bit messy, if you know what I mean.
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading, commenting and kudos-ing! ♥

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

 

John sighed and rubbed his temples as he crouched behind some musty old wooden crates. Currently, he had found himself helping his [probably] insane flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, on a stakeout against a gang of human sex traffickers. The criminals, of course, had an empty warehouse near the Thames. Naturally. He was half-expecting to find large burlap sacks with dollar signs on them alongside the other victims.

_But John,_ he had pleaded. _You promised you would help me on my next stakeout!_ And truthfully, John had promised. Sherlock, of course, bastard that he was, didn’t tell John it would be today.

It was 11:34am. It was sunny, with a slight chill. It was a Tuesday in October, and tonight was a full moon.

“Sherlock,” John pleaded. “you know I really can’t stay today. It’s...y’know...my ‘day’”? Sherlock gave a dramatic roll of his eyes.

“Really John,” he drawled. “I think rescuing innocent victims of sex trafficking are more important than your ‘rugby’ and ‘poker games’. Besides, I thought you were the compassionate one.” John scowled. Having a man like Sherlock Holmes, the most morally dubious man John has ever met, question his empathy was embarrassing. He could feel blood rushing to his hands and legs, the uncomfortably familiar rage coursing through his system as it usually does on a full moon day.

“This isn’t a matter of what I do or do not do once a month, Sherlock.” John hissed. “What I’m saying...is that I need to get out of here. Before it gets dark.” he finished lamely. Sherlock grinned and wiggled his fingers.

“What’s wrong? Afraid the _boogeyman_ will come and get you?”

“No...I’m afraid people will get hurt.” Sherlock grinned wickedly and put his mini binoculars up to his eyes.

“You’re here, John,” he stated, beaming with pride at his flatmate. “of course people are going to get hurt.”

John really didn’t like how right he was.

 

John checked his watch; 2:17pm. Mercifully, the sun was still in the sky, though he didn’t have much longer before things got much harder to control. While John was a patient man, stakeouts weren’t on his top ten list of things to do on a cold winter afternoon. He glanced at Sherlock, whom he was pretty sure hadn’t moved an inch in the last forty-five minutes. Granted, he was also sure Sherlock could do a stakeout in Siberia wearing nothing but swim trunks and an inner tube, but that was besides the point.

Stakeouts were odd in the way that the detective had a near-infinite amount of patience for them. _That’s the point of a stakeout, John_ he had said one time. _You simply have to wait for something to happen. No sense getting mad at things outside of your sphere of control._ Yet, John mused, this was also the man who would throw a temper-tantrum if his cab was thirty-three seconds late.

Sherlock sniffed against the cool air.

“Considering how busy they’ve been lately, I thought we would’ve seen something by now.” Sherlock fired off a few quick texts. “Doubt you’ve seen anything yet, eh John?” John sighed quietly.

“No...considering I’ve been here with you the whole time. Maybe I should, I dunno, move to another vantage point or something?”

“No point.” Sherlock stated, once again lifting his mini binoculars to his hawkish nose. “This is an awkward layout they’ve put themselves in; only one entrance and exit. The other door is badly rusted shut, so they left it. No one ever did say criminals were smart, but this is almost too much...”

John’s ears perked up.

“Sherlock, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he mumbled distractedly.

“That!” John managed to dodge the first swing, but was quickly put into a full nelson by another large man. The hulking goon lifted John clear off his feet, eager to take away any advantage he could have had on the ground. The anger bubbling beneath the surface erupted in full force as John expertly mule kicked the man’s right knee, causing him to drop John. “Sherlock!” John yelled as his friend was swarmed by no less than four massive forms. He could see through the fray that the detective had already been knocked unconscious. “Sherlock!” He knew it was useless to call his name, but he couldn’t give up. He continued to struggle even as two more men were on him.

The last thing John remembered was the sneering face of one of the men as he was struck out cold.

 

“...and furthermore, if you had more than two brain cells to rub together then you would be able to tell that--John!”

John winced against the sound of his name, trying in vain to lift his head into an upright position. His whole body felt like lead; spots were appearing in his vision and he could feel crusted blood on the back of his neck. He tried to lift a hand to the wound, only to find that his hands were tied behind his back - and to a solid wooden chair. He glanced over at Sherlock - while relatively unharmed ( _oh thank God_ ) he was in the same situation as John. Sherlock’s piercing blue eyes flashed with concern. “John, are you alright?” The doctor took a steadying breath against the wave of nausea he felt. He assumed he had a concussion.

“...Yeah...yeah, I’m alright. You okay?” A corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up.

“Of course I’m alright. Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of here.”

The situation they had found themselves in shouldn’t have been a semi-regular occurrence, but, well, no one else had an insane flatmate. The warehouse they were in was well-sized for a once-abandoned building, and any glaring holes in the walls or additional entry/exit points were boarded up. Men of varying ages and nationalities marched about, hauling boxes, bags, and the occasional person. John’s bleary eyes fell on a huddled group of terrified-looking Vietnamese men and women - all young, all very pretty, and all obviously victims of the unforgivable crime of human sex trafficking. His heart clenched - he and Sherlock would get these people out, hell or high water.

A terrifyingly familiar jolt ran down John’s spine. His head shot up as he quickly surveyed his surroundings with a more detail-oriented eye. The only windows in the musty old warehouse were in a band, stretching across all four walls, and all about thirty feet in the air.

Dusk was just ending.

Oh no.

John whipped his head around and started pleading with the man assigned to stand guard.

“Um, sir...Sir? Excuse me, sir?” he begged. “You, ah, you should really think about letting me go. Letting us go. Please. Really, you don’t know what you’re getting yourselves into. Please. Sir? Sir!”

Their guard, a large, surly-looking man who had had his nose broken several times, grunted in response.

“W’assa mattah,” he replied thickly. “you gotta use th’little g’els room?” John tried again.

“No, really, I’m not making this up. Things are going to get very, very...hairy.” He winced at his wholly inappropriate pun. “I’m going to...change. I’m going to change; I’m going to be very different, and I’m going to be angry.” The man smirked.

“Lemme guess,” he laughed. “ah won’ like ya when yer angry?” John smiled; finally, their guard realized that hey wait a minute. The doctor sighed heavily.

“Laugh all you want,” John continued to plead. “but you...need to let me...go.  
Or...lawk...meeh...uhp...” John’s tongue suddenly felt too big for his mouth. He swallowed thickly, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out all over his body. “Oh God...oh God...it’s beginning...” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his hands momentarily pausing their escape attempt.

“John, are you alright? Are you scared?” He leaned forward and peered at his friend. “Really John, we deal with worse before breakfast! Don’t honestly tell me that you’re frightened?” John began to visibly shake, his teeth clacking with the effort. Their guard motioned at him with his chin and glanced at Sherlock.

“Oi, w’as wrong wit yer friend? He havin’ a seizure or sumpthin’?” Sherlock scowled at the guard, hesitant to give the man anything else to use against him. Sweat was dripping from John’s brow; he looked sickly, pale and torn between vomiting and passing out.

“John!” Sherlock hissed. “What’s going on? Is this some sort of escape plan you’ve neglected to tell me about, or are you actually a diabetic or something?” John resolutely refused to meet his gaze, and sharply turned his head away.

“Shhh...Shhahwlaaawk...” John slurred. “Get...awahy...run..!” The doctor sounded like he suddenly had a mouth full of broken teeth. Sherlock’s mind buzzed frantically as he tried to grasp what was going on.  
“John, calm down. You’re not making any sense. Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of here - there’s no reason to panic. John!” John’s ears were ringing; he couldn’t register what his friend was saying anymore. He was vaguely aware of their guard giving him a sour look; his face accusatory.

“Tell yer friend t’cut it out! I ain’t lettin’ ‘im go! I dun’ care wot ‘is problem is!”

John threw his head back, the scream that was bubbling in his throat finally ripping free. The silence was deafening. Moonlight began to filter through the dirty windows bordering the warehouse, tiny specks of dust dancing through the beams.

He slowly turned towards Sherlock, opening his eyes.

They shone a bright yellow, the deep blue of his own irises drowned out by the harsh gold. Sherlock sucked in a harsh gasp.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock...” John sobbed, the increasingly pointed teeth filling his mouth making it hard to speak. “I’m so...so...sorry...”

 

Sherlock Holmes, loose with his own set of rules as he may be, lived by one concrete thought: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. He was a man of science, observation and rational thought. Some thought it odd that he didn’t discount things like ghosts or spirits - while he may not currently believe, if shown solid evidence, then he would change his opinion.

He didn’t completely discount the fact that John may have been connected to these monthly lunar homicides. John was not a killer for fun; he was a man who killed only for necessity, but he seemed oddly uncomfortable whenever the topic was broached, like he had something to hide. The only real thing that had saved his friend was the style of the killings - mutilated bodies and flesh ripped to ribbons wasn’t something John was capable of, in any respect.

Apparently John _was_ responsible, and not only that, he had been an unwilling participant. Part of his brain chastised him; all of the evidence was there, he just couldn’t put it together. The not-quite ‘wolf’ fur, the bloody footprints, the modicum of sentience that the killings conveyed. They were done by an animal, yes, but an animal with the power of a man.

Essentially, a werewolf.

Sherlock decided that (in this particular case only), he wasn’t too fond of being proven [somewhat] right, if only to eliminate the pain John was currently experiencing.

It was truly _fascinating_ \- like watching those old 80’s horror films, where everything was still done with makeup, fake fur and stop-motion animation. He could see splits in John’s skin, mostly near his spine at the back of the neck, most likely giving way for rapid muscle growth ( _makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint; shape the spine and the rest of the anatomy will follow through nicely_ ). He could see where the rope that currently bound John to the wooden chair was straining against the rapidly blossoming muscle mass, causing his jacket ( _his favourite jacket, £129.99, last big splurge before he went into the army_ ) to rip at the seams, watching as the fabric eventually shredded under the pressure.

John was convulsing now, thrashing against not only his soon-to-be-futile bonds, but the intense agony he was going through. Sherlock’s observant gaze darted from spot to spot on John’s body, simultaneously horrified and delighted at this wealth of new information that surely no one must have known about. John’s legs quivered and burst, eventually snapping at the knee joint and rearranging themselves to mimic the classic hind leg of a canine. The fabric of his shoes exploded with the effort of containing John’s rapidly growing feet, the long claws his toenails had become punching through the fabric with little effort. John squirmed futilely in his seat, allowing Sherlock the smallest glimpse of what appeared to be his spine uncurling and elongating into what he assumed would be a tail. Sherlock could see the doctor’s usually gentle hands elongate, with long claws ripping through the sensitive skin.

It felt odd to see his hands; those hands that had so often bandaged and cared for Sherlock turn into such instruments of death, but then again, how was that so different from when John the doctor became John the soldier?

Sherlock’s eyes became transfixed on John’s face. His mouth, which was filled with over-sized ivory daggers, was beginning to warp and stretch. His nose flattened, pulling and settling at the point of the lupine snout that was beginning to grow from where his human jaw used to be. His forehead - usually home to those hard lines that would appear when he was exceptionally exasperated (which, with Sherlock, was nearly all the time) stretched and bristled with additional hair, the own blonde hair on his head darkening and growing fuller and thicker. His round ears ( _which usually stick out and turn red when he’s embarrassed_ ) began to point and migrate nearer to the top of his skull. They grew into long, wicked points, matching the now decidedly inhuman visage he was staring at.

John ( _John? Yes, John_ ) gave an earth-shattering roar and stood to his full height, the chair and ropes lifting off the floor. With a single flex of his powerful muscles, the ropes finally snapped, and the the poor wooden chair splintered into several pieces.

No one wanted to move. The air was still; the only sounds being John’s own harsh snarling, and the muffled sobs of the Vietnamese victims. The creature that was once John Watson surveyed the scene, his two glowing golden eyes giving a slow sweep of the room. Sherlock held in own breath - in fear or wonder, he’ll never know - and watched what once was his friend.

The guard closest to them was the first. Stumbling backward, he bellowed in terror and opened fire with his semi-automatic, hitting John several times in the chest. Sherlock screamed out the doctor’s name, concern flooding his bare emotional circuitry. The man-wolf picked himself off the ground, and stood to his ful height of a mighty seven feet. The creature looked down at his chest, and with a wicked snarl, lunged forward. John knocked the gun out of the man’s hand the most effective way Sherlock had ever seen - by simply removing the man’s arm. The burly man wailed, clutching desperately at his bleeding stump, but before he could pitifully sink to the ground, John struck again with his dagger-like teeth, tearing the man’s throat out in one swift go.

What proceeded what chaos. One of the mundane hired goons knocked over Sherlock’s chair in a desperate bid to escape, immobilizing the detective on his side, tied to his own chair. Sherlock desperately tried to look over his shoulder to witness the proceedings, but only the sounds of the mens’ screams echoing off the walls told the tale. Judging by the sounds of what he assumed was a futile escape, he concluded that yes, only having one entrance/exit was not the brightest of ideas.

Going on what he heard, it also sounded like a wheat thresher had begun operation in the middle of the room.

Sherlock was no stranger to violence. He had surrounded himself with death by choice, but death was clinical; it was science. It held no meaning for him besides another mystery to make his brain tick. Physical harm was just an annoying deterrent used by people with no brainpower to hide their tracks. A punch here, a split lip there, and a black eye would wrap up an average evening, no fuss, no muss.  
This was a massacre. An honest-to-God massacre.

He could hear the screams of the victims; the kind of screams wrenched out of people’s throats when they knew that screaming would be the last thing they ever did. Those screams were different. They were primal, visceral, and never imitable. Every now and then, a limb would fly past Sherlock’s narrow field of vision and crash into the boxed cargo. Everything was a cacophony of sound - the guttural howls of man, woman and beast. He could hear the gushing sounds of torn arteries, crunching bones, and the final utterances of life from all fourteen men behind him.

And he couldn’t see a thing.

 

It was over within minutes. In the time that it takes to eat a light lunch with a cup of tea, fourteen grown men had been mercilessly slaughtered - possibly devoured - right behind him. Sherlock could hear the choked sobs of the young men and women, who were either very good at remaining unnoticed, or making themselves not worth John’s time. He was suddenly hyper-aware of the sound of his own trembling breathing, genuine fear taking ahold of him for the first time in memory. The heavy _thump_ and _click_ of John’s footsteps ( _still walks with a bit of a limp; flat pad of foot followed immediately by claws on toenails_ ) broke him out of his reverie. He still couldn't see, but at this point, he felt he didn’t want to see.

Sherlock laid on the floor, still tied to the chair, shaking uncontrollably. He could feel John’s hulking presence just a few feet behind him, the heavy pad of his footsteps echoing in the now-empty warehouse. The wet, snarling breathing was audible in every corner of the building, the occasional splatter of saliva or blood making a wet _smack_ on the cold cement flooring.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, a tiny bead of clear snot mixing with the tears that automatically ran down his face. He opened one eye momentarily only to be greeted with the profile of a snout full of teeth so sharp he could bleed just by looking at them. He closed his eyes again, careful not to move too quickly for John to notice. The massive snout drifted closer - Sherlock could smell a mixture of blood, vomit, and the sharp tang of ruptured colon on John’s breath. The detective was shaking so hard it was making his muscles ache.

_I am going to die._

The thought bloomed in Sherlock’s mind. Gone were the deductions, his wit fleeing and useless. He was going to die here, on this cold cement floor, killed by the most important man in his life, who wasn’t really a man at all, not anymore. 

The massive, fang-filled snout gave a wet inhale near his face, making Sherlock’s fringe vibrate from the tiny breeze. The stinking, hot breath expunged over his face, nearly making the detective gag. Another long inhale through his nose, then John began sniffing his face in earnest. Sherlock could hear the canine nose move, the liquid sniffs and snuffles so close they almost tickled a sharp cheekbone. A long, stained rope of saliva dangled out of John’s mouth, landing on Sherlock’s face and slowly running down across the bridge of his aquiline nose. Sherlock flinched momentarily, causing John’s mouth to open in any airy, angry snarl.

Sherlock froze, not daring to move an inch. John exhaled noisily, satisfied that the detective wasn’t going to make any sudden movements. The werewolf pushed Sherlock’s face roughly with the tip of his nose, leaving a filthy stripe of gore on Sherlock’s alabaster skin. Sherlock flinched again, his body in an internal panic. John took another deep whiff and bared his teeth slightly, his large wolfish lips curling over his stained fangs and gums. With a final growl, John stood up and turned towards the exit. Sensing John’s presence leaving, Sherlock finally dared to open his eyes. The muscles in his face hurt from being so tense, but he was still alert and shaking, listening to each heavy, padded footstep go closer to the exit.

Silence hung over the eerily quiet warehouse. John - or whatever he had become - was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

Sherlock wished he could stop shaking.

 

Lestrade peeled around the corner, the screech of his tires cutting sharply through the wail of sirens. _What happened to Tuesday being the quiet day?_ he mused to himself, glancing in his rearview mirror. A sizable squadron of four more police cars followed quickly in his cars’ wake, honking and swerving to avoid the traffic that didn’t quite stop in time. This would’ve been an easy case, routine even, except for when his mobile buzzed earlier that night with a message from the elder Holmes, Mycroft.

 

Please mobilize all available forces and go to the address I will send you shortly. My brother and the doctor are in danger. I will be sending some of my men to accompany yours.  
MH

 

Lestrade swallowed the lump in his throat. If _Mycroft_ thought it important enough to send his _own men_ along with the other officers, then Sherlock had definitely gotten himself in over his head. Knowing the brash detective, he had probably pissed off the Irish Mafia, or exposed the plot of one of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted.

He should have a talk with John about keeping the man on a tighter leash. John seemed to have some sort of power of command over Sherlock. He envied John sometimes.

Well, except the fact that he had to live with the man.

The cop car rumbled over the scattered lumber and slimy cement platforms of the docks of the Thames River, anticipation curling in Lestrade’s gut. This is what he lived for - saving the innocents and taking down the bad guys. He really hoped the two men weren’t hurt - insufferable as Sherlock was he genuinely liked the man, and John was a kind, easy-going fellow. Lestrade tightened the straps on his bulletproof vest as he slid out of the drivers side door, meeting the eyes of Sergeant Donovan, clad in similar attire. She nodded curtly, palming her pistol and began barking orders to the other officers. Mycroft’s men, faceless and bound in black, seemed to meld out of the shadows of the cop cars, all stiffly holding some form of automatic firearm.

Lestrade took a deep breath and motioned half of the officers towards the building, the other half following the Sargeant. The DI made some simple hand motions, and leaned in to turn towards the only entrance of the warehouse.

“Sally,” Lestrade called. “there’s no light in there. Get some lights set up after we give the all-clear.” She nodded in confirmation, motioning a few other officers to head back towards their supply van. Lestrade gave one more quick glance - odd that there was no one around, unless they were all in hiding. “Alright men,” he barked into his radio. “On the count of three! One...two...THREE!”

 

Sally Donovan was no slouch. You had to be tough to be where she was, and to do what she did. If going knee-deep into the cesspool of society wasn’t enough, she had a tower of racism and sexism to deal with back at the Yard. Her boss, DI Lestrade, was a good man who treated her like a human being, and she appreciated that more than she showed.

That being said, not a lot made her stomach turn, and she’s seen some of the worst London has to offer.

When she burst into the warehouse hideout with Lestrade and several other armed officers, she was expecting, well, _bad._ Maybe a body or two, some human atrocities; the usual. This was something that the most twisted, attention-desperate Hollywood hacks weren’t capable of dreaming of.

Bodies were _everywhere._

Well, at one point, they were bodies.

Sally paled at the sight before her, her stomach doing a few flip-flops at the sound of some less-experienced officers vomiting onto the floor. There must have been the contents of at least ten full-grown men strewn across the warehouse floor (and walls). The floor shone with blood and gore under the floodlights that were brought in, flies already buzzing in lazy circles. One of the heads was fairly intact save for the skin that was torn and hanging in ribbons. Intestines made messy trails from body to body, the sharp tang of their contents turning several faces sour. Several severed limbs nested within smashed and dented cargo crates, their torn muscle mass glistening in the artificial light.

If Sally had seen this on the telly, she would have laughed at the gratuity of it - it was so over-the-top it seemed almost comical. Part of her wanted to walk up and run her finger in the blood to make sure it wasn’t coloured corn syrup. The gentle sobbing of one of the male officers behind her snapped her back to brutal reality. She could hear her boss utter a string of curses under his breath.

No one spoke. Sally, Lestrade and whichever officers weren’t heaving outside slowly proceeded forward, the eerie silence putting them even more on edge. They treaded carefully, taking their time not to slip in the human offal splayed across the cold floor. A startled scream grated on everyone’s already frayed nerves, who pointed their guns at the sound.

An officer shined his floodlight on the source - a group of filthy, terrified, but mercifully alive Vietnamese men and women shielded their eyes from the light with one hand. One woman sobbed a few sentences in broken English, pleading with Lestrade.

“It is gone?” she cried. Lestrade shook his head.

“I’m sorry? I don’t know what you mean--”

“It is gone?!” she screamed loudly, fresh tears spilling down her face. Lestrade approached her with one of his hands open.

“It’s, it’s alright, miss,” he soothed. “you’re all safe now. We’ve got you. You’re safe; we’re going to get you all home, okay?”

Sally’s eyes caught a dark shape on the floor, just enough in the shadows to not be obvious.

“Sir!” she motioned forward with a sharp jut of her chin. Lestrade’s eyes fell on the limp form.

“Oh my God...” Lestrade breathed as he ran forward. “Sherlock! Sherlock! Can you hear me? Are you alright?! Sherlock!” The DI pulled out his standard-issue knife and cut the dazed detective free. No longer bound to the confines of the chair, Sherlock slumped to the floor, boneless and shaking with terror. Lestrade’s expert hands quickly patted him down for injury. “Sherlock, oh Jesus Christ, Sherlock! What the bloody _fucking hell_ happened in here?!” Lestrade turned his head to the gathering crowd. “Don’t just stand there! Bring me some goddamn paramedics! Secure this perimeter!”

Sally had never liked Sherlock very much; she had always cruelly made fun of him for his obsessive fascination with death. Now, seeing him curled up on the floor, cold grey eyes staring endlessly into nothing, she, for the first time, saw him as human.

 

Sherlock sat in the back of an ambulance, aware of but paying no heed to the bustle of panicked activity around him. His magnificent brain whirled on top speed, trying desperately to make sense of the carnage he had witnessed not even an hour ago. Death was nothing. Death was science. Beautiful, constant, inevitable science.

What was in that warehouse was...a mockery of human life. Human. Was human. Once human.

John.

Back at the warehouse, Lestrade had attempted to shake him out of his daze and ask him where John was. For once, Lestrade had proved he did have a brain between his ears and had noticed the other (albeit smashed) wooden chair. _Was John here? Was John tied up too?_ the DI had asked.

_Yes_ , Sherlock had wanted to reply. _John was here, but he’s not quite John anymore. He’s gone, Lestrade. I don’t know where he is._

Sherlock blinked rapidly when a styrofoam cup of water was placed gently in his hands. He met the gaze of the paramedic ( _female, approximately age 36, artificial ginger hair, just got over a bad breakup_ ) who patted his shoulder in what he assumed was supposed to be a soothing manner.

“We’re gonna take you in for a thorough check-up, alright Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock continued to stare at her, grey eyes unblinking. She smiled worriedly and motioned for another medic to tend to him. The detective half-watched the woman walk over to one of the smaller groups of Vietnamese trafficking victims as she knelt down to them and attempted to communicate.

Sherlock’s eyes wandered to the moon which hung fat and full in the night sky, the occasional cloud drifting in front of it. By all accounts, it had been proven that crime did in fact not increase on a full moon; it was all superstition. John didn’t mean to do what he did. It was a condition that he couldn’t help; a disease that Sherlock was eager to research - and hopefully cure. In the meantime, he would find John, and take him away - they would travel across the globe in an effort to regain John’s humanity. Oddly enough, the idea of dropping crime solving in favour of saving John didn’t seem that big a sacrifice. No one else had inspired those kinds of thoughts, but then again, it was obvious that he would do anything for John, just as John would do anything for him.

Yes, he would find John. He would protect him, and he would save him.

Then they could back to solving crimes.

 

Somewhere off in the distance, the howl of a wolf pierced through the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, everyone! The big climax is coming up soon!  
> Thank you so much, as usual, for reading! I haven't been able to write for at least the last two weeks, so I need to bust my ass to catch up!  
> Also, when I go back and add pics, I'll post them in an edit.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

John was gone.

The night after the incident at the warehouse, Sherlock waited patiently at 221B, jumping up out of his seat at every little creak of the flat. He had only been home a few hours after being released from medical custody, and was eager to speak to John about the previous night’s occurrence. Chastising himself for his own stupidity (he blamed it on the shock), he had neglected to realize that John was not only injured from last night’s [semi-] firefight, but very likely unable to face himself - and Sherlock - for what he had done.

That was so like John; always thinking with his heart - but it was an unnecessary stress the doctor was taking upon himself. Sherlock wouldn’t think any less of John for what he did. After all, it wasn’t his fault.

Plus, he had even spared the real innocents in last night's’ raid, so really, John had nothing to worry about.

So he waited. Or, tried to wait. The idea of John lying somewhere hurt did funny things to Sherlock’s chest, so he grabbed his coat, scarf and mobile and ran out the door. The paramedics advised him to stay in and get lots of rest, as did - of all people - Mycroft. The idea of not only finding John, but defying his brother in one go was too great to pass up, so he jumped in a cab and headed for the scene of last night’s massacre.

Seeing the warehouse in the daylight was oddly desensitizing. Police officers were in every nook and cranny of the surrounding area, and every now and then Sherlock would see a man in a black suit. _No doubt Mycroft’s goons sniffing around,_ he thought sourly. Steeling himself for a replay of only a few hours ago, Sherlock marched into the warehouse to a very harried Detective Inspector.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock nodded curtly. Lestrade ran a weary hand over his face.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here? Didn’t you get told about...y’know what, nevermind.” Lestrade took a deep breath and placed a comforting hand on the detectives’ shoulder. “We...haven’t found anything really concrete on where they could have taken John. We found...” he swallowed. “scraps of clothing, specifically some that looked like his jacket.” Sherlock stared back, stone-faced. “We’re doing everything, and I mean _everything_ in our power to find him. We’ve got teams with the sniffer dogs out scouring everything for miles. We _will_ find him, Sherlock. You have my word.”

Sherlock debated for the briefest of moments if he wanted to fill the DI on what actually happened last night. Coming to the conclusion that it would bring up endless strings of useless questions, the detective remained silent. After all, John _did_ need to be found regardless, and if the Yard was willing to put in the legwork, he wasn’t one to complain.

After all, he had his own investigation to conduct. Let the Yarders look for something as mundane as tracks - he was going to do what he did best. Sherlock sniffed from the cold air. He would find John by end-of-day tomorrow, at the latest. Then, after making sure the doctor was safe and healed, he would begin to study this fascinating condition.

His fingers itched at the thought of it. Later, though. First, find John.

He was _far_ more important than research.

 

Twenty-two days, seven hours, thirty-seven minutes and eight seconds.

That was how long John had been missing.

Sherlock ran his hands through his greasy hair, his left eye starting up that twitch he hated so much. It had been twenty-two days, seven hours, thirty-seven minutes and now twenty-six seconds since John had gone missing on that fateful night. He had worked tirelessly, only falling into a few hours of fitful sleep every when his body would give out. The nutrition his body cried out for was arriving in the form of several packs of cigarettes and overly-sweet coffee, the trays of sandwiches and pastries Mrs. Hudson was leaving out going stale and mouldy. He gave his filthy curls a savage tug. 

It should have been so easy! It should have been a simple, open-and-shut-oh-it-turns-out-John-was-hiding-under-a-bridge simple, but it wasn’t. John was gone; vanished off the face of the earth. There weren’t even any signs of him actually dying somewhere (though granted it would at least make him stationery. He hoped). Lestrade’s promises of bloodhounds and extra men were futile. They had tried; Sherlock could at least see. Lestrade liked John, and wanted him found just as much as Sherlock (no one could have wanted him found more than Sherlock), but there were budgets, and time constraints, and it sadly came to the point where the DI, with a heavy heart, had to call off the search.

Sherlock’s hands shook violently as he attempted to light another cigarette. His near skeletal fingers grasped onto the smoke like a dying man clinging to a life preserve. He didn’t bother to expend the energy to notice the flat door opening quietly.

“Unless you’ve come in here to tell me that you’ve found John, then piss. Off. Mycroft.” Sherlock punctuated his curses with a violent drag of his smoke. Mycroft closed his eyes, secretly enjoying the gray cloud of nicotine his brother expunged with a delicate sniff.

“Sherlock, I’m only here checking up because I worry.” Sherlock whirled around, eyes feral.

“If pity were currency I’d be the richest man in London,” he spat. “and frankly, I get enough of it from Mrs. Hudson. Now, have you come here to tell me something useful, or have you come here to get in my way?” Mycroft said nothing; simply adjusted his suit jacket with a light tug. Sherlock’s upper lip curled, and he lept out of the chair ( _John’s chair where was John_ ) to the kitchen. He grabbed a large, graduated cylinder from the kitchen table and hurled it violently at Mycroft. “Get out!” he screeched. “Get! Out!” Each cry was accentuated with another deafening smash of broken science equipment. Mycroft effortlessly dodged the childishly-thrown projectiles, serenely waiting until his brother finished his tantrum.

“Sherlock,” he began. “I have come with information. I don’t have all day to wait for you to finish your histrionics, you know.” Sherlock's chest heaved with the effort of his fit, his thin, sallow face making him look like some kind of temperamental zombie. He brandished a long beaker like Excalibur, pointing it at Mycroft.

“Well?!” he spat. “Out with it! Unless you somehow _ate_ the information?” Mycroft sighed quietly. There really was no reasoning with Sherlock when he was like this. His baby brother needed John - perhaps more than he was willing to admit. Mycroft reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a damp, stained envelope. Sherlock snatched his out of his hands, his stormy grey eyes gleaming.

“This was left in deliberate view of one of the lesser-known CCTV cameras,” Mycroft explained. “the person who left it there was later identified as a Ms. Abigail Winston, known to her friends as ‘Abby.’” Sherlock’s eyes blazed. “I believe, dear brother, that you know her as one of your ‘Homeless Network informants’?”

The detective quivered with rage. He was currently using their unseen eyes and ears to search for John. If they were somehow keeping him from the doctor...

“In any case, they knew we would see this. While I am no expert, the writing on the envelope does appear to be Doctor Watson’s printing.” Sherlock’s fingers ghosted over the crinkled paper business envelope. He cradled the paper reverently and turned his back to his older brother. Mycroft nodded minutely, sensing his brothers’ desire for privacy.

It was an odd occasion that he also heeded it, turning on his heel and exiting the flat, leaving his baby brother to his obsession.

Sherlock pulled a miniature exacto-knife that he had jammed in the coffee table ( _John would be furious about that_ ) and surgically opened the envelope ( _standard business security envelope; adhesive seal instead of saliva-activated glue_ ) and pulled out a single sheet of thin paper. It crinkled from the weather it had sat through, small, permanent bends and breaks appearing in the brittle paper ( _paper is thin and cheap, most likely a dollar store notepad_ ). There were one or two spots where John’s pen ( _blue, ballpoint, running out of ink_ ) had nearly punched through the paper; one more thing that made the precious letter just that much more...John. With a shuddering breath, Sherlock began to read:

 

Dear Sherlock,

First of all, I wanted to apologize. I am more sorry than you can imagine for keeping this all from you. You gave me so much, and all I was able to contribute was death and misery to your days and nights.  
I am still trying to understand what’s going on. I was bitten back in Afghanistan not long before we met. I should have died out there in the desert. It would have saved a lot of lives in the long run. I was too much a coward to put a bullet in my brain, though judging the state I woke up in after the warehouse, I’m not sure that would have done much.  
You gave me such purpose and joy after coming back to London. I am - or was - honored to be a part of your life. Being with you made me forget the thing that lurks in the back of my mind. You truly made me feel alive and ~~there was something I kind of wanted to say~~...well, you know.  
I have a few loose ends to tie up here, but then I am going to leave so I won’t cause anyone any more trouble. Maybe I can find a cure for this, or at least find a way for me to never hurt anyone ever again.  
Please give Mrs. Hudson my love, and tell her I’m sorry for being a bad tenant. I’m sure you could get my final paycheck from Sarah at the clinic to cover my portion of rent for now.  
Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. I will miss you more than anything. Thank you for everything.

Yours,  
John Watson

PS. I know it’s probably futile saying this, but please do not come after me!! I am dangerous!!!

 

Sherlock’s grey eyes scanned the letter over and over, his brain once again firing on all pistons. Was there a secret code? Was John trying to tell him to meet him somewhere? Was he-- _oh._

John _was_ giving him a hint. What a brilliant man his doctor was!

Sherlock bustled around the flat, mentally noting that he should finally have a shower before going out. John was giving him a chance! John wanted to be saved! The detective’s fingers flew over his mobile, typing out as series of rapid-fire texts to some contacts of import. Having ‘a few loose ends to tie up’ meant that John would still be at least in the UK until at least the next full moon, which was in about eight and a half days. John was too worried about the safety of others to risk travel so close to the full moon, so he would at least be around until then. He could potentially be as far up north as Aberdeen (he mentioned he had a few friends there), or somewhat local (Harriet lived in the outskirts of London).

His phone buzzed with a few SMS replies. He needed to take a trip to pick up some supplies.

After all, if he couldn’t find John, then he would wait for John to show himself.

And then, he would be ready.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter. The fight you've all been waiting for.  
> Please pardon my distance equations and fake police jurisdictions. I’m not sure if Lestrade would have been able to participate in the proceedings, but I had to take some “artistic liberties.” I hope no one minds too much!  
> Also, I know dick-all when it comes to guns. Everything here is all thanks to the Google Gods.  
> As usual, thanks again, and enjoy!

*************************************************************

Martha Hudson quietly hummed along to herself as she made what would most likely be another futile meal for her tenant. She wasn’t his housekeeper (thank you very much), but the poor man rarely took care of himself - even less so, she thought sadly.

Sherlock’s flatmate and her other tenant, Doctor John Watson, had been missing for about a month now. She wasn’t able to glean the details from Sherlock, but from what his brother had told her, John had vanished after a botched infiltration of a human sex trafficking ring. The police had all but given up, but Sherlock was manic in his attempts to locate the doctor. She frowned sadly. John was a good man, and she truly hoped he was okay. She always said that those two led such dangerous lives, but having something actually happen was too real and permanent for her liking.

Matha stacked a few cucumber sandwiches on a plate and walked up the stairs to 221B. She knocked on the door gently, calling softly for the man.

“Sherlock? It’s me, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve brought you something to eat if you’d like..?” She pressed her ear to the door - it sounded like several people were talking all at once on the radio. Just what was that man doing? She eased the door open, softly calling his name again, and was greeted with a sight that would have been odd - had her tenant not been the world’s only consulting detective.

Sherlock sat in the middle of the living room, his lanky frame decorated by his signature blue house coat ( _at least he’s actually dressed in something other than his jammies,_ she thought sadly). His hair stuck out in all directions, and he had handfuls of wires in and around his lap. Little radio boxes sat in stacks in a circle around him, several of them chirping to life occasionally and spitting out a few blurbs. He had a large pair of headphones hanging around his too-thin neck and was continuously fiddling with knobs and wires. Mrs. Hudson placed the plate of sandwiches on top of one of the precarious little towers of technology.

“What’s all this about, Sherlock? You’d better not be frying the carpet with these things.” Sherlock only just now seemed to notice his landlady.

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson! Isn’t this brilliant?” She smiled politely, and gave him a blank expression. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t notice enough to insult her. “These are police scanners! I can use them to find John!”

Mrs. Hudson continued smiling, having absolutely no clue how several stacks of radios would find the doctor. She patted him affectionately on the head.

“Well, you just make sure you get some rest tonight, and don’t spend too much time playing with your toys. I’ll be back later to grab the dishes from you.” Sherlock hardly took note of her leaving, instead fiddling with more dials, desperate to get on good frequencies.

While Sherlock wasn’t too sure of what John had done all these past full moons, it obviously wasn’t enough to keep him from killing - the ‘full moon dog attacks’ were still happening with perfect accuracy and frequency.

Tonight was a full moon.

If John was somewhere in the UK, then surely _one_ of these police scanners would eventually pick up the sighting of a large, bipedal wolfman, regardless of what he was doing.

 

Sherlock’s eyes darted in between the clock on his mobile and the police scanners he had surrounded himself with. Moonrise that night was at 4:58pm (he thanked the winter months for their longer night cycle), but it was already nearly 7:00pm, and there was still no sign of a murderous lycanthrope. The detective scowled; tonight was really his final chance to pinpoint John’s location before he escaped into the world beyond, which frankly was not an option.

It was the usual - robberies, fights, and occasional call for public drunkenness. Shallow people throwing stupid parties with too-loud music and too-cheap alcohol, though his favourite for the night so far had to be the call for the man who got himself stuffed in a rubbish bin and rolled down a street.

“ *kssshh* Any available officer in the area please respond to a code 10-91V in Deer Park in the Blackheath area, over.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. A 10-91V was an altercation with a vicious animal. Sherlock grabbed his Belstaf coat and raced out the door, the flimsy wooden door of 221B slamming shut behind him. He frantically waved to hail down a cab, grateful that traffic was somewhat on the lighter side tonight. Blackheath was only about a thirty-minute drive away - if he could make it before John left, then he still had a chance. He slipped into the cab and shoved a wad of hundred-pound notes into the drivers face.

“Take me to Deer Park in Blackheath. Get there in under twenty minutes and I’ll throw in another two hundred pounds.” The drivers’ eyes shone with greed, and he tugged on the brim of his pageboy hat.

“Yer wish is my command, sir!”

The squeal of tires pierced the gentle hustle of the crowds of central London, while the full moon hung above, and watched her children play.

 

Lestrade’s patrol car radio buzzed to life to report the code pertaining to a vicious animal attack, causing the DI to fly into a controlled panic. _This could be it,_ he had thought excitedly. _This could be the full moon killer!_ While Lestrade tried his best to understand criminals, this was certainly one he would be more than happy to put behind bars and throw away the key. Someone out there was keeping a large and vicious dog - some kind of wolf-breed - and massacring innocent civilians. It was one thing for criminals to infight; hell, even using his dogs to rob his victims would’ve been preferable. But he grew to dread the height of the lunar cycle, because without fail, he’d get the call that some other innocent man, woman (or in one case, a child) was found, torn limb from limb.

He assumed the whole ‘full moon’ thing was nothing more than a gimmick to play on pop culture. Naturally, the media ate it up, which made his life exponentially more difficult.

Lestrade pulled up to Deer Park in record time. He pushed his tan trenchcoat out of the way to grab his gun out of its holster. He knew Sally and at least two other officers were en route, but he just couldn’t wait. Using the headlights from his squad car, he scanned the trees for some kind of clue.

The sharp howl of something not-quite-canine cut through the parks’ darkness, causing Lestrade’s blood to run cold. One hundred and thirty-thousand years of evolution was telling him to _not_ walk into the inky blackness of the trees to confront what could be a large predator, but Lestrade was an officer, and if reports were to be believed, there was some poor young woman in there, most likely dead by now. The DI frowned and pulled out his LED torch.

When he had radioed back pertaining the call, the dispatcher had just said that an ‘anonymous tipster had heard the howl of a ‘wolf’ and a woman’s scream coming from Deer Park’, and he had rushed to meet it. People were at least being not only diligent, but weirdly sensible about the whole thing. At first, the Yard had been flooded with calls every full moon for something as simple as a barking pomeranian, but people had seemed to wisen up, and only called for the more unique animals.

Most of the time it had just been a large dog - like a german shepherd - that had gotten out from its yard, but for being such a [probably] huge and vicious animal, it was oddly scarce. He checked the clip of his gun, its weight comforting in his hand.

The wail of sirens snapped his attention to the large paved path into the wooded park. Two more cars skidded to a halt besides his, Sally Donovan stepping out of one, and Constable Erin, a stocky, well-built fellow with dark brown hair and a strong sense of justice. Sally jogged forward to meet him.

“What’s going on, Sir?” she asked. Lestrade jerked his chin towards the thick expanse of woods.

“I think tonight’s the night, Sally,” he answered tersely. “we’re gonna get this sick sunuvabitch. Please tell me more backup is on the way.” Sally frowned, but eventually nodded.

“Been a weirdly busy night, but more officers will come when they can.” Her and Erin pulled out their pistols. “You ready?” The DI nodded.

“Let’s do this!”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

_SO WARM. SO GOOD. FOOD. PREY._

The massive wolf-man snarled loudly, taking another hearty mouthful of flesh. The young woman he had found was perfect - muscular enough to be satiating, but still fatty enough to make the meat taste good. The creature gave a revolting parody of a laugh and resumed its meal.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Greg Lestrade was not a man easily frightened, which usually ended up making his job easier. He was also a sensible man - considering he’s gone toe-to-toe with the worst humanity has to offer, the ‘things that go bump in the night’ didn’t really seem all that scary. He’d take boogeymen and poltergeists any day, so long as he didn’t have to make up new paperwork for them.

He was glad, then, that he didn’t scream in terror or soil himself at the sight before him.

The hairy creature turned its head slowly at Greg, the bright yellow beads of its eyes shining brilliantly in the wake of his LED torch. The thing was massive; it towered over the rest of them, and its back was hunched. It dropped its victim - a pretty, slightly chubby woman who had gone out for an after-dinner jog - and turned its full attention towards the officers. Thick, black coarse fur covered its vaguely humanoid shape, with canine-like back legs holding up its massive and oddly-balanced frame. Disproportionately long arms hung at its side, and it leaned forward a mere few inches to plant itself on all fours like a hideously deformed wolf.

A single long, pointed ear sat near the top of its head, twitching occasionally to catch the stuttered breathing of the terrified officers. A long snout faced them, filled with gleaming, dagger-like teeth, the creatures’ upper lip curled to reveal the deadly weapons. Blood and saliva dripped from its mouth in a never-ending stream, landing on the grass with a soft _splat_.

As if it needed to make even more of an impact, the creature was evidently missing a portion of the left side of its face. A gleaming, hairless stump formed what Lestrade assumed was the other ear, and masses of pink scar tissue sat near its left eye. The exposed skin and muscle tissue seemed to constantly shift and heal, causing the creature to sometimes blink erratically.

Lestrade pointed his gun at the ‘wolf-man,’ his index finger pressing lightly on the trigger. He knew this creature was extremely dangerous, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to shoot. The creature looked at the three guns, then settled back on the DI, its mouth twisting open into something reminiscent of a human grin.

“John!”

The shout caused all three officers to jump violently, and Lestrade risked breaking eye contact with the creature to glance at the newcomer.

“Sherlock?!” he shouted angrily. “What in the bloody _fucking_ hell are you doing here?!!” Sherlock ignored him, concentrated fully on his new target. There were leaves and twigs attached to his coat and hair, and he had a somewhat manic glint to his piercing grey eyes.

“Don’t shoot...any of you...” he breathed. “I’ve been searching for him endlessly the last month, and if any of you clods scare him off, there will be hell to pay.” The werewolf snarled loudly at the approaching detective. Sherlock placed his hands out, palms up, in what he assumed was a placating gesture. “It’s alright, John, it’s only me.” he cooed.

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged worried glances.

“Hey Freak, look, you’re a pain in the arse, but I don’t hate you enough to want to see you get your face ripped off!” she hissed, her gun’s aim never wavering. Lestrade snorted through his nose - he really didn’t have the time or energy for this right now.

“Look, Sherlock, we all know you miss John,” he diplomatically stated. “but now is really not the time. Go back and lock yourself in my squad car; it has bullet proof glass. I can’t risk you getting hurt!”

“And I can’t risk you hurting John!” the detective shouted. He turned back to the hulking creature and scanned it with a meaningful gaze. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled; why was John’s face all torn off? Had he been injured in a previous altercation tonight? He also didn’t remember him being so...large, or even black, for that matter. Then again, Sherlock hadn’t been able to get a good look at him back in the warehouse, so he didn’t really have any previous observations to go on.

Regardless, this was John - _his_ John, and he would save him and protect him. He knelt down on the grass, belatedly realizing that the wetness he felt on his trouser knees wasn’t the evening dew, but blood from the female jogger. He had researched the different ways wolves and other large canines communicated; if he presented himself as a submissive and therefore harmless--

“Sherlock! MOVE! NOW!” Lestrade barked. The creature crouched down on all fours, somehow still managing to be the size of a horse, and roared, spraying all four people with strings of blood, saliva and gore. All three officers immediately opened fire, filling the hulking predator with bullets. Its body shook with the impact of each bullet, chunks of flesh flying off and falling onto the ground around it. Officer Erin’s gun was the first to run out of bullets, the gun clacking uselessly from the empty clip. The Yarder eventually threw his pistol to the ground and took off back towards the squad cars. Sherlock covered his ears over the deafening hail of bullets.

“STOP SHOOTING HIM!” he hollered, trying to reach them over the sound. The creature howled in fury, and launched itself at Sherlock, determined to get an easy kill before going onto the officers.

Sherlock’s eyes met the flaming golden orbs of the werewolf that was hurtling towards him. The wolf-man would cover the short distance in a single leap - Sherlock could see its mouth opening impossibly wide, most likely aiming to take out a piece of the detective’s skull in one swoop.

For the second time in a month, Sherlock Holmes really, truly believed that he was going to die.

 

Sherlock didn’t believe in fate. Fate, destiny, and serendipity were things created by weak people who were too lazy or stupid to take any real control of their lives. After meeting John, though, he could perhaps begrudgingly admit in coincidence, and being at the right place at the right time. He had been at Bart’s that ‘fateful’ day, and he had mentioned to Stamford that he was looking for a flatmate. It was simply good chemistry that he and John got along so well.

Even when John shot the cabbie through the window, that was simply another case of exceptional timing on his part.

He did, however, find it somewhat humbling that John was there for what turned out to be the true beginning of his life, and there for the end of it.

Well, it would have been the end of his life had he believed in something as trivial as ‘fate.’

A massive brown shape came hurtling out of the trees at breakneck speed, smashing into the pouncing werewolf mid-flight and knocking it to the ground in a flurry of limbs and gnashing teeth. Lestrade and Sally recoiled in terror, backing up until their backs hit two separate trees. They both had their currently empty guns pointed at the mass of teeth and claws, but were both too paralyzed by fear to reload them.

Both forms quickly untangled themselves, only to dive back in, howling with unbridled fury. Sherlock watched the spectacle with wide eyes - his ‘savior’ was another wolf creature, this one notably smaller than the black one, but still tall enough to surpass every human in the area. This one had shaggy, dark brown fur, the pelt turning to a sandy tan near its face. Its snout was a bit shorter than the black ones’, but the compacted muzzle didn’t make the mouth of dagger-like teeth any less intimidating. The smaller brown one kept placing itself in front of Sherlock, opening itself for additional hits from its attacker. It fought bravely and efficiently, and Sherlock could see that while it was more skilled with its left arm, it continuously favoured its right.

Oh. _Oh._

“John! It’s John! He’s here!”

Lestrade dashed forward and grabbed the collar of Sherlock’s dramatic coat, dragging him back towards the officers. The first creature they encountered seemed entirely fixated on the detective, continuously trying to break melee with ‘John’ and get to him. The smaller one used everything it had to keep dragging the larger one back into the fray, biting, tearing and slicing it manically.

The deafening boom of a shotgun cut through the night, the sparks from the ammo causing tiny glints of hot lead to dance in the darkness. John howled in agony as a large hole was blown out of his right side, the hot spray of blood and exposed tissue steaming in the cold, clear night. The rest of the bullet slugs landed in the black werewolf behind him, causing it to roar in fury.

“You _idiot!_ ” Sherlock thundered. He pushed Lestrade’s grip away and ran towards Officer Erin, who was standing just behind the edge of trees. Erin pointed the shaking barrel at Sherlock, too deep in the throes of terror to tell friend from foe. Sherlock deftly avoided the mouth of the gun, and with a single, liquid movement, delivered a staggering uppercut to the jaw of the Yarder, knocking him out cold. He knelt down to grab the shotgun and purposefully strided back to the exceedingly vicious fight.

“Lestrade; Donovan! Keep the big black one distracted and its back to me!” Lestrade gritted his teeth.

“Sherlock, we’re out of ammo! There’s not much we can exactly do here!” Sherlock sneered. _Leave it to Scotland Yard to be completely useless at every available opportunity,_ he thought angrily.

“Then take care of your idiotic officer before I throw him into the fray for what he did to John!” Donovan glanced at her boss for permission. Lestrade nodded curtly.

“Get him out of here, Sally. The last thing we need are more bodies.” She nodded and dashed off to the unconscious officer.

“I’ll direct the backup here!” she called from the trees.

Sherlock stood tall and confident, watching the brutal fight only a short distance away.

“Very well,” he coldly stated. “if Lestrade can’t do anything, then naturally the only one I can trust...is you.” Sherlock clumsily aimed the gun at the two beasts. John was bleeding profusely, the extra exertion of fighting causing even more blood to slick the grass around him. It was obvious that John was getting weaker, and while he was no expert of werewolf physiology, it was likely John would bleed to death if he continued like this. “John!” he ordered. “Grab him and turn his back to me! I’m going to fire!”

Sherlock and John’s eyes met for the briefest of moments. The detective could see for himself - there was unquestionably the glimmer of sentient thought behind those eyes. The doctor was in there, somewhere.

With one final burst of his energy, John grappled the larger werewolf, whirling it around so its back was exposed to the armed detective. With a futile squint into the near-darkness, Sherlock raised the barrel and fired.

 

_FIGHT. KEEP FIGHTING. NO GIVE UP._

_MATE IS HERE. PROTECT MATE. PROTECT TERRITORY._

_THIS ALL OURS. THIS LAND. THIS MATE._

_OTHER TRY TO TAKE IT. OTHER TRY TO HURT MATE._

_KILL OTHER. KILL OTHER. KILL OTHER._

John bear-hugged the other werewolf, and used what little remaining strength he had to make it a viable target for Sherlock. The larger werewolf howled furiously, spraying John with spittle and blood. Both creatures were spent and exhausted, their respective injuries and blood loss slowing them down considerably. They were expert fighters - their human training carrying over to their improved forms, but the fight was clearly drawing to a close. John’s eyes, the colour of deep gold, caught Sherlock’s panicked expression across the clearing.

Something stirred in the back of his mind.

Somewhere, deep down, under the fury, the bloodlust, and the need to kill, was the warm, gentle core of John Hamish Watson. The John Watson who wore oatmeal-coloured jumpers, and drank tea at every available opportunity. The John Watson who was not only trained to protect, but trained to heal. This was a man who took no pleasure in killing, but was pragmatic enough to know he must in order to protect what he loves. This was the man who took and gave joy to one of the most infuriating, but brilliant men in London, if not the world.

No matter the exterior, this was still John Watson, down to the very cells that made up his being, and no matter what, he would protect Sherlock Holmes.

He experienced a moment of pure, blissful clarity, unclouded by his curse, as the shotgun fired.

 

The second slug from the 12-gauge blew into the back of the other creature, causing it to screech in agony. Its scream was a blood-curdling mix of animal and human, the pitch wavering back and forth. John’s changed mind didn’t know how long to hold on - all he knew is he had to ensure the other creature was dead. The human portion of his mind would have been able to tell that Sherlock was holding a Remington 870 12 gauge pump-action shotgun, and that he had three more slugs to last through.

While Sherlock was an extremely talented man, he had neither the strength nor the training to aim and fire such a powerful weapon well, and consistently. The third slug hit the creature’s right shoulder, part of it scalding John’s forehead and scalp with hot lead pellets. The fourth hit the creature on the outer left of its abdomen, causing more of the buckshot to scald and pierce John’s already massive wound. He roared in pain, but continued to fight against the manic struggling of the larger werewolf.

The fifth, and final shot blew a hole in the base of its spine, causing John to lose his balance with the impact.

The large black creature lurched forward, blood and mucus pouring out of its mouth and nostrils in a steady stream. The furious black werewolf struggled to stand as it snapped and snarled, enraged and panicked from its injuries. John took a few purposeful strides forward and grabbed the thick ruff of fur around the other werewolf’s neck, and with a mighty heave, slammed him down into the gore-slicked grass.

Sherlock and Lestrade watched in awe as John raised his head, took a deep, shuddering breath, and bit down into the other creatures’ throat with such ferocity it made the two men cringe. John’s brutally sharp teeth tore through the exposed area like a hot knife through butter, the frantic pumps of the exposed arteries shooting jets of hot blood into the cold night air. The surviving werewolf gave a gargling growl and slowly raised his head up, gold-coloured eyes attached to the moon.

John reared his head back and gave a mighty, triumphant howl

_GOOD...NO GIVE UP. KEPT FIGHTING. WIN. MATE SAFE. GOOD. WE STRONG._

John Watson heaved a shuddering sigh and collapsed into a heap on the ground. He was so very tired.

 

Sherlock watched in awe and fascination as John, his precious John, gave a mighty howl and crumpled to the ground. The air was crisp and cold, thin, gentle columns of steam rising from the grievous open wounds from both of the werewolves. Sherlock hurled the Remington to the ground and dashed forward, heedless of any lingering danger.

“John!” Sherlock skidded to a halt and fell to his knees. “John...can you hear me? Can you understand me?” A set of gold eyes flickered open, obviously unfocused and only half-looking at the detective. Sherlock pulled himself closer to his changed friend, and reached an arm around his massive ruff to pull the lupine head into his lap. John gave a wheezy whine, his massive chest rising and falling with substantial effort. Blood was steadily pumping out of the gaping hole in his side, with most of his other more serious wounds oozing out the precious fluid.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice shaking. “John, you must promise me. You must promise me that you _will not die_. Not here, not now...I searched endlessly for you. Please, John, you simply cannot leave me again, not after I’ve just found you!” John snarled, his wolfish face scrunching up in pain. He rolled his massive head in Sherlock’s lap until he faced the other werewolf that lay behind the detective.

“Oh my God..!” Lestrade gasped.

Sherlock turned his head to the presumably dead werewolf - the body began to convulse. Small twitches of the hands, feet, and what was left of its face, turned into violent seizing within seconds. The two men watched with revulsion and awe as the twitching began to animate certain parts of the creatures’ body.

Over the course of what seemed like hours, the werewolf began to shift and change back into a human form. Muscles shrank and joints popped; the shaggy pelt receded to reveal a myriad of vicious wounds all over the battered body. The massive musculature eventually revealed the form of a man - the body shape was lean and wiry, not entirely unlike Sherlock’s body type, but not naturally. This was the body of a man who had gone long periods with little to eat, but the accelerated healing of the lycanthropy had made him stronger and more resilient.

A mop of long, greasy black hair flowed around the mans’ back and shoulders, obscuring his face. The man was Caucasian, though it was hard to tell under the thick, matte layer of caked on blood, dirt and offal. The craters where the shotgun slugs had hit true were trying to heal, the skin and muscle pulsing weakly in an attempt to stem the blood flow, but they were visibly slowing down.

Finally, after one last shudder, the body stopped its futile movements, and laid still in the cool grass.

Lestrade cautiously approached the dead man, his flashlight trained on the corpse. The DI knelt down and moved the mass of inky black hair out of the way to reveal the man's face. Much like when he was transformed, a sizable portion of the left side of his face was a series of never-healed pits and gouges. His left ear was gone, as was most of his left cheek, brow, and scalp. The man's left eye was barely concealed in the socket - Lestrade could see the sensitive veins and tissue were bulging with the effort. Lestrade let out a shaky breath.

“We’ll, ah...we’ll get him identified.” He looked to the detective who was still cradling John’s massive lupine head. “...How’s, um...how’s he doin’?” Sherlock looked somber.

“...I’m not sure...” he whispered quietly. “he’s still breathing, so he’s already doing better than him.” Sherlock smirked at his weak attempt at humor. John gave a convulsive shudder and growled loudly, his wolfish face still scrunched up in obvious pain. “John? _John!_ Stay awake! Please, stay awake! Please!”

John’s golden orbs gazed into Sherlock’s eyes. There was relief there; relief knowing that he could finally rest. Sherlock clutched desperately onto the werewolf. “John! John!” The wolfman gave a gargling sigh - Sherlock could feel the massive form go boneless as he lost consciousness. “JOHN!”

Lestrade and Sherlock watched their second transformation in as much as a single night, both horrified at the sight, but equally unable to look away. John growled, snarled and whined - it was much like watching someone’s dog as it dreamt, legs twitching and eyelids fluttering as it ran through some unseen glen. Sherlock ghosted his fingers over John’s rapidly morphing face, gasping in awe. Because seeing it was one thing, but to feel it was...indescribable. It was like he was existing at a different frame rate than John, who’s cellular activity was in such overdrive that his entire physiology was warping and mutating right before him.

Eventually, the vicious claws retracted back into stubby fingernails, the double-bent legs became distinctly humanoid, the tail crept back up the spin, and the ears receded into his familiar facade ( _John always hated when I commented that his ears stuck out_ ). Gone was the thick, dark brown pelt, and gone were the vicious teeth, wolfish snout and hard eyes.

Slowly, but surely, the wolfish visage shifted and changed until the face of John Watson had reappeared at last. His face scrunched up in pain, his brain riding the last bursts of adrenaline from the transformation. The lines on his face gradually softened, until the thing that rested in the lap of Sherlock Holmes was none other than his dear, precious John, who for all the world looked like he was merely in a deep sleep - if you ignored the horrific injuries and liberal coating of blood.

Sherlock shrugged off his great coat and draped it over John’s unconscious form with a flick of his wrists. He ran his fingers through John’s filthy, unkempt hair, savouring the feeling of having the other man so close once more. Sherlock had known that he had missed John, but having him here, really, tangibly here in front of him felt like he had gotten the other half of his soul back.

John completed him, and he completed John.

Sherlock ignored that his feet were falling asleep. As far as he was concerned, all of his body parts could fall off and rot as long as it didn’t disturb his deep slumber.

John was home, and he was here to welcome him.

 

Lestrade drew in a shaking break and turned away, belatedly realizing that he was witnessing something extremely private. He looked over his shoulder, surveying the scene before him - two dead bodies, both mutilated beyond recognition, and another unconscious one, though Lestrade wasn’t totally sure if he could call John a ‘man,’ cruel as that sounds.

Actually, no - John was a man. One of the nicest, bravest men he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. This was the man who was able to keep Sherlock bloody Holmes in line, and this was all _without everyone knowing he was a werewolf_. Lestrade scrubbed a hand roughly over his face, and took off towards the only-now approaching backup and paramedics.

Tonight was going to be a long night.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Sorry for the late chapter! We had a long weekend here in BC, but I literally spent all 3 days off helping my friend-turned-landlord renovate this biohazard of an apartment. :s  
> The next chapter might be a bit late as well; we'll have to see how much time I can squeeze in for writing. >_

John slept.

And while he slept, he dreamt.

They weren’t the dreams of running, or hot sand and gunfire. They weren’t the dreams of killing, of crushing bone with his jaws. They had started out like that - dark and terrifying, with winding corridors, dark thickets and shadowy creatures. Eventually, they had tapered; slowly replaced a soothing rumble of indistinct voices and an all-consuming warmth. For the first time in many years, John felt safe, nurtured and loved.

John continued to sleep.

 

John blinked against bright light of the setting sun, the slatted blinds doing little to reduce the harsh glare. He felt terrible - his mouth was dry and coppery; he was filthy, and ached to the point of almost being unable to move. The uncomfortable sensation of medical tubing shifting in various places on his body made him hiss in pain as he desperately tried to make sure everything worked.

“Good evening, John.”

John blinked in surprise and looked to the left side of his bed, only to find Sherlock staring at him intently. The detective had definitely seen better days. Sherlock’s usually immaculate hair was greasy and hung limply against his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked (and smelled) like he hadn’t left John’s side in days.

John opened his mouth, but only a pitiful squeak came out. Sherlock reached to his nightstand table and gently placed a plastic cup of water to John’s parched lips. He took the liquid with relish, grateful for something to soothe his scratchy throat. In a surprising show of tenderness, Sherlock took a napkin and delicately wiped the few drops that had dribbled down his chin.

“Sherlock...” he finally croaked. “What...where am I? What are you doing here?” Sherlock smiled gently.

“You’re in a military hospital of Mycroft’s choosing, I haven’t left since you were brought here, and you’ve been asleep for nearly nine days.” John sputtered with shock.

“Nine days?! Oh my God...” John shifted under the heavy hospital blankets again. “Well, that would at least explain the feeding tube...God, can someone get this thing out? It’s really painful.” Sherlock nodded, and left to grab a passing nurse. John held his hands up to his face and stared at them intently. He only had vague, fuzzy memories of what had happened over a week ago. He had killed again; that much was sure. Something always stirred at the back of his mind whenever he added to his personal body count, whether or not it was by choice.

He was still a monster - that hadn’t changed.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later and eased himself into the flimsy plastic chair beside John’s bed.

“A doctor will be by in an hour or so to remove the feeding tube,” he said. “along with any other unnecessary contraptions. They...weren’t sure how long you were going to be asleep, so they erred on the side of caution.”

“Yeah, yeah...I figured. That...was, um, good of them. Very good.” John coughed weakly. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock was fidgeting endlessly. He swallowed with difficulty; his mouth tasted like blood and felt like cotton. He could hear Sherlock’s steady heartbeat beside him, grounding him in reality.

A pregnant silence hung in the room, undisturbed by the bustling of the world outside.

“Sherlock...” John began. “Why are you even here? You shouldn’t be near me; I left for a reason.” Sherlock gave him his best ‘You’re an Idiot’ glare.

“Why do you think I’m here? I searched for you endlessly after the night at the warehouse, and now you’re here, and you’re never going to leave like that again. Simple.” John could feel his face go red.

“It’s not that simple.” John spat angrily, his fists gathering the sheet fabric. “I can’t just..stroll back into 221B like nothing ever happened. How the hell am I supposed to go back to normal when _I’m not even human,_ Sherlock?! How can I drink tea, or go on cases, or shop at Tesco’s or...or _anything_ , knowing what I’ve done?! What I _am?!_ ” The detective seemed unmoved.

“Why should it matter?”

“What do you _mean_ ‘why should it matter’? I’ve killed people in unspeakable ways! Probably more than I even know about myself! Also, did you block out the bit where I said _I wasn’t human?!_ ” Sherlock leaned back in the plastic chair, placing his hands underneath his chin like he was praying.

“While I am loathe to admit that I didn’t come to this conclusion sooner, the fact remains that I knew practically nothing of your...condition.” he said delicately. “Still, you have been you - John Watson - since the beginning. Why would any of that change now?” John stared at him, mouth agape. Sherlock tilted his head to one side, studying the doctor intently. “Frankly, I don’t care if you’re a fire-breathing, two-headed Jabberwockey every second Tuesday. The fact remains that you are still you, down to your very core. I fail to understand the source of your concerns."

Tears sprang to John’s eyes. He blinked rapidly and looked away, trying to hide the emotions that were bubbling over.

“Um...thanks.” he whispered quietly. “That’s...wow. Thank you, Sherlock.” John glanced back, taking the chance of meeting the detective’s eyes.

Sherlock was staring at him with such intensity that John felt he might as well be sitting stark naked in front of him. John’s breath caught in his now-closing throat - Sherlock was so close, all he had to do was reach out and touch his face, just to put a fraction of the adoration he felt for this man in the physical plane--

A gentle, but very pointed cough cut through the intensity. Sherlock had apparently been under the same spell, and whirled around angrily at the intrusion.

“Hello Sherlock; Doctor Watson.” Mycroft crooned from the door. His icy gaze landed on John, who gladly allowed his anger to flood over his blooming embarrassment. “How are you feeling this fine evening?” Sherlock stood up fast enough for the cheap chair to topple over.

“He’s fine, which is more than I can say for you if you don’t move your elephantine arse out of this room.”

“Please, dear brother. I’m merely checking up on him as a concerned party. Surely you can’t begrudge that?” Sherlock scowled mightily at his older brother.

“You don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘concerned,’ Mycroft. Whatever you want will have to wait; John doesn’t have the energy for your crap and frankly, neither do I. Now why don’t you crawl back under your government-approved rock and leave us be.” Mycroft gave a patronizing smile.

“Now now, Sherlock. For once, this is hardly about what you want. I was simply going to tell Doctor Watson some information pertaining to the identity of the other...victim.” he said diplomatically. John sat up straighter, heaving himself up on shaking arms.

“Wait, what do you mean? I mean, of course I want to know who it is, but...am I allowed to know?” Mycroft turned to John, his eyes gleaming.

“Considering you used to be his superior in the army, I would certainly say you do.” John could feel the blood run out of his face.

“What are you saying?” he asked, his voice cold and clipped. Mycroft flicked an invisible speck of lint off his suit jacket, and smiled at John. It was not a gentle smile.

“Does the name ‘Ethan Cunningham’ mean anything to you?” John’s breath caught in his throat. Sherlock watched the exchange with interest.

“Yes...he’s dead. Ethan and I were the only...survivors. He died. He died at that hospital back in Kandahar, Mycroft. Why would you bring him up?!” John screamed. He didn’t care that he was sounding hysterical, all he knew was that he was _furious._ Mycroft’s gaze never wavered.

“Are you sure?”

“...Yes, of course...” he whispered. “When I was lucid enough I asked the nurses about him...they said he didn’t make it. I know they did. They wouldn’t let me see his body but I kn--” John eyes bored into Mycroft’s. “ _You._ What did you do?” The elder Holmes coughed lightly and adjusted his suit coat - he seemed apprehensive.

“John, before I begin, you must understand that protecting Queen and Country is a substantial part of my job. Everything I do I do for the good of the British people.” John leaned back in his bed. His blood was boiling in rage, but the effects of lying unconscious for nine days were starting to catch up to him. Mycroft glanced pointedly at Sherlock - or more the chair he was sitting in - and when Sherlock didn’t move, he sighed wearily and unfolded another one that was leaning against the wall.

Mycroft eased himself into the chair, yet still somehow managed to look down at John. “I will say that I am truly sorry for what happened to your squadron. After the others found you and your comrades, I was immediately notified.”

“Why?” John asked, skeptical.

“When something comes out of nowhere, with the ability to decimate an entire armed squadron of trained soldiers without any traceable weaponry, then that is something I need to be made aware of. What if it was a new weapon from the enemy? A super-soldier? A bio-weapon? It is vital that we keep on top of these things.” John remained silent. “In any case, there were indeed only two survivors - you and Cunningham. You must understand that he was injured very, very badly.” John swallowed.

“...How badly?”

“Enough to make the decision to take what would have eventually been his corpse back to England.” John scrubbed a hand over his weary face. Mycroft adjusted his tie and continued. “Cunningham was so badly injured that, in order to research what had killed him, we declared him KIA to give his family and friends closure, then brought him back to home soil. If he lived, then we could question him. If...not, then we were hoping to glean at least something from his body.

“We, of course, did not know what we were in for - while we were transporting the body to a secure location, the armored transport car crashed, allowing him to escape. We had found the car, which was somehow torn apart from the inside; the drivers killed before the actual collision. By the time we realized that we were dealing with something out of the ordinary, we had a powerful, deranged killer on our hands.” Sherlock finally spoke up after remaining quiet for an uncharacteristic amount of time.

“If he had healed enough to tear at least two grown men limb from limb in the armored car, why was his face all rotted away? John didn’t cause that.” Mycroft paused; it seemed he was searching for the right words.

“When we first examined his body, the fatal wound he had sustained was from a single bullet at point-blank range. Due to the nature of the metal, a very powerful infection set in, nearly killing Cunningham, but obviously scarring him.” Sherlock looked ponderous.

“I’m going to hazard a guess and say that this ‘metal’ was silver?” Mycroft smiled patronizingly.

“Correct. Seems your knowledge of pop culture has paid off once again, little brother.” He turned to the doctor. “The same make of bullet was removed from your shoulder as well, John.” John placed a hand over his old shoulder wound and frowned thoughtfully.

“That man...” he mumbled. “he must have known. He must have known what we would’ve become...” Both Holmes shot him an inquisitive look.

“There was no one else there when we arrived, John.” Mycroft stated. “The one who attacked your squadron was gone as well.” John gave a shuddering sigh. A part of him wanted it to all be over - he was done with the blackouts, the guilt, and the violence. A weaker man would have held up his hands and given into the inevitable fate that he would be hauled off to some lab for the rest of his unnatural life. He would never hurt another innocent person; he wouldn’t have to worry about hiding it from anyone, and he could finally live a life of peace. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? John was a creature of habits; he valued the times he would settle down with a cuppa and watch bad telly. He cherished the moments he could curl up with a good medical text, and he lived for the times he would run out of the house, hot on the heels of his flatma--

“So what now.” John said, his face stern, but his eyes sad. Mycroft arched an elegant eyebrow.

“Whatever do you mean, John?”

“Don’t play dumb, Mycroft. It can never work on me.” John took a steadying breath. “If you’ve known, then why haven’t I been locked up? How come you’ve allowed me to stay with Sherlock?” The elder Holmes inhaled deeply.

“I already stated that we didn’t know what we were dealing with. Of course we knew you were a survivor, but we did not get the information we were looking for during your interrogation. You were, of course, still quite ill, but we had no other choice.” John frowned.

“Wait - you and your men _interrogated me?_ ” he asked incredulously.

“Of course we did.” Mycroft gave him a predatory smile. “You don’t remember?” Sherlock shot up out of his chair, his face twisted in an ugly scowl.

“We’re done here, Mycroft. You need to leave. _Now._ ” Even though Sherlock towered over his older brother, Mycroft’s face was like ice. His cool eyes turned to John as he faced his brother.

“Before I go, I thought I would let you both know that I have spoken to the detective inspector, along with all participating members of the ‘incident.’ What you are, or what has transpired, will not be spoken of again.” Another surge of anger welled up in John’s chest.

“What did you threaten them with? Losing their jobs? Family members ‘mysteriously disappearing?’”

“Nothing of the sort. I simply...talked to them.” He made a show of looking at his hideously expensive wristwatch. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I do have to finish cleaning up this little supernatural mess of ours.” Both John and Sherlock watched the man leave, but blinked when he stopped in the door. “So sorry; one more thing, John - I’ll be contacting you about your ‘confinement arrangements’ soon. A shabby, civilian bomb shelter just simply will not do, hmm?”

Childish as it may been, John simply couldn’t resist hurling the cup of water at the closing door, and cursed his poor timing. He was hoping to ruin Mycroft’s perfect suit.

“I wouldn’t worry about him, John. I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything to you.” He turned back to Sherlock, who was staring at the closed door. His eyes looked distant. “I won’t let anything else happen to you. I swear.”

“He’s got a point, y’know.” Sherlock finally turned to face John.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s right - an abandoned bomb shelter halfway across London won’t do the trick for very long. What if someone finds me? What if I get out? While it’s done the job for now, it’s hardly a maximum-security prison. And of course he’s been following me...God, how stupid could I have been to not think about that?” Sherlock kept his steely gaze on the doctor, and frowned.

John looked...defeated. Lying before him was the man who would willingly face down danger head-on; who would - and has - fought and killed for his country. This was a man who could face down the Four Horseman with nothing but a handgun, all while wrapped in an oatmeal-coloured wool jumper.

Now, he just looked sick and tired. The lines on his face from his pain made him look two decades older, and his whole body seemed to sag with the weight he was carrying on his conscience. “Maybe I should just let him lock me up...” He started in shock when Sherlock was suddenly inches from his face.

“Maybe you have transformed.” John blinked, not understanding the metaphor.

“Sorry..?”

“Maybe you really have transformed. The John Watson I know would never have given in so easily. You’re threatened with the possibility of a lifetime confined in some government lab and you’re just going to roll over and accept it?” Sherlock scoffed and straightened up. “You have changed. You’re so afraid of hurting anyone else that you’ve given up fighting on all fronts.” John balked at him - the absolute _nerve_ of him..!

“How...how _dare_ you, Sherlock?” John growled. “How dare you accuse me of being weak; of not wanting to fight! It’s not that I’m ‘rolling over’ for anything - I have killed over a _dozen people!_ How the hell is it ‘weak’ for wanting that to stop?! How is it ‘weak’ for maybe wanting to get help?! What if Mycroft’s men can find a cure? At this point, simply having the power to restrain me is enough! What could you _possibly_ do that they can’t?!”

“I care.” John cut himself off.

“...What?” Sherlock’s eyes burned with passion.

“I care, John. Of course they can lock you up, draw some blood and pat themselves on the back for a job well done. But I care. I still see you as human, while I guarantee they’ll be testing lipstick on you in a fortnight.” Sherlock crossed his arms and began pacing the small room. John wondered if it was his imagination that the detective was purposefully avoiding eye contact.

“You...care?”

“Contrary to popular belief, yes, I actually am capable of such a supposedly complex emotion.” Sherlock sniffed imperiously. “It’s simply the fact that no one has been worth the time or energy to warrant such a thing. Well, until you came along, that is.” A soft blush bloomed on Sherlock’s face, his alabaster skin making it all too obvious. “You cannot leave again, John. I wasn’t joking when I said I’d be lost without my blogger. We’ll work something out; we always have. If finding a cure means that much to you, then I’ll start work immediately. Of course, I will need to start by taking samples of your skin, blood, urine and hair, both as a human and in your changed state--”

“Sherlock.” The detective stumbled mentally.

“What?” John wore a gentle smile. “...Okay, we’ll wait for the samples, but I will need them--”

“Sherlock.” John patted the spot beside his bed. “Come here a moment.” With trepidation written all over his face, Sherlock turned and approached the bed. Sherlock’s stomach did a flip-flop; he couldn’t understand why he was so anxious. John didn’t look like he was going to yell at him, but he could feel the slight electricity in the air, like he was on the precipice of a great shift. He finally sat down, and brought his eyes up to John’s.

The doctor was looking at him with such adoration it make his heart skip a beat ( _though an irregular heartbeat is worrisome; John is a doctor, he’d know what was going on_ ). John reached a bandaged hand to his face and gently stroked his cheek with his thumb.

“I’m...ah...I’m sorry, in advance for this. I just...please, let me do this, Sherlock.” Before he could ask what exactly John meant, the doctor had snaked his hand around the back of his neck and pulled him forward, the final destination being John’s soft lips.

John was kissing him. Sherlock’s body seized in surprise. John was actually kissing him.

Sherlock knew that it was generally impolite to keep your eyes open during this sort of thing, but he simply had to catalogue the few seconds that their mouths were joined. John kissed him sweetly, his chapped lips lightly scratching his smooth ones. Sherlock frowned as John pulled away; weren’t these things supposed to last longer?

John opened his eyes in time to see the bewildered frown on Sherlock’s face, and blushed in embarrassment.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Sherlock. Like I said, I just...well, I kind of had to. It’s just...this whole thing has just been too much to deal with, then you start going on about you’ll never leave me, and, well, I know I always say I’m straight but I just didn’t have a good way to express...um...this, and...yeah.” His cough seemed to echo in the empty silence. “Just...delete that. Store it in a dusty cubby hole in your mind palace or something.” Sherlock’s mind finally caught up to the moment.

“John.” John was determined to fix the hangnail on his thumb and was resolutely avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. “John, look at me.” When he didn’t, Sherlock reached a delicate hand out and tipped John’s chin up to meet him. He had to see his face; had to savour the chance to really look at John. It had only been a month, but it felt like an eternity. “You can’t go. You can’t. Please...I went mad while you were gone - just ask Mrs. Hudson. Please, John...stay.” John blinked and gently pushed Sherlock’s hand away. He blinked several times; Sherlock could see his eyes shining with unshed tears.

John looked like he was about to shatter into a thousand pieces, and Sherlock was determined to be there to put him back together.

John murmured in surprised when Sherlock swooped down and kissed him in return. The dam of emotions - all the frustration, fear, and need for one another exploded, and within a few seconds they were clamouring for each other. John was the first to pull away, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Sherlock liked the way his lips were beginning to swell from his gentle bites and ministrations.

“S-Sherlock...” John gasped. Sherlock purred as he planted small kisses down John’s neck.

“You’re still weak,” he cooed. “You should rest.” The enamored detective pulled himself away with obvious reluctance. “Besides, I believe that doctor will be by shortly to remove all of...this.” He gestured disapprovingly at all the medical tubing currently invading John’s injured form.

“Right...right. The tubing.”

“Oh, and...I may have made a bit of a mess of the flat.” A weary sigh escaped John’s lips.

“Do I need to bring the toolbox back out?” Sherlock looked only mildly sheepish.

“...We have leftover wallpapering supplies, right?”

 _The more things change, the more they stay the same, I suppose..._ John thought as he tallied a mental shopping list and budget. John’s frown was suddenly cured by the appearance of a thick shock of curls nuzzling his neck. A shiver ran down John’s spine.

“Sherlock...you can’t...” he gasped as Sherlock nibbled at the base of his neck. “You can’t do this every time you do something that annoys me-Ah!” Sherlock pulled his head away, his grin wolfish.

“Who said this was because of the acid burns on the kitchen table?”

“Wait, what acid burns--Jesus!” Sherlock seemed fixated on John’s neck. “Also, cut that out! The doctor will be here any moment!” The other man ignored him completely and continued his explorations.

“Oh, it’s alright...they’ve seen worse.”

 

John was only moderately mortified when the doctor began questioning the large blooming hickies on John’s neck, momentarily mistaking them for a reaction from medication. Sherlock smirked wickedly the whole time as John stammered through his explanations.

When he had scolded John and firmly stated that ‘no sexual intercourse should be attempted until full recovery,’ John wondered briefly if he could actually die from embarrassment.

He was already in a hospital, anyways. At least the cleanup would be easy.


	10. Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Jeez, I'm sorry for the wait! I got too cocky and ran out of my cache of chapters. I volunteered to help my friend-turned-landlord renovate this 2-bedroom apartment from top to bottom, so I would literally come home from work, change, then run downstairs to help her.   
> Every. Day.   
> I didn't mind (I _did_ volunteer, after all), but we just finished last Sunday. :0
> 
> As for the story, thank you all for sticking with it! Sorry for the delay, and not-sexy-but-angsty ending. It might interest you to know that I _will_ be continuing this universe! It's going to be a little while, but I need to write the outline, then start pumping out a few chapters. 
> 
> Thanks again, and I'll see you all soon! Happy hunting!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*

John settled down into his favourite chair, hot cup of tea in hand. His body ached, but at least he felt better after a hot shower - and a clean flat.

Upon arriving back at 221B (despite his guilt and shame for doing so), he nearly had an aneurysm at the state of the poor thing. Radios and wiring were everywhere. The floor was covered in broken glass, and it smelled like several things had died and simultaneously vomited all at once. He had to deal with the mess a bit longer than he would’ve liked, but John felt it was for a good reason - Mrs. Hudson had caught them on the way in.

John’s heart ached at the sight of their wonderful landlady weeping grateful tears, hugging and holding John close as she went on about how much she missed him, and was happy for his return. He hated that he left in the first place, but stuck with the general story that he had been kidnapped by that trafficking ring. It took a solid hour of assuring her that he was fine ( _“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I really am okay”_ ), but she eventually left the two to their own devices.

As an added bonus, she came back upstairs while they were cleaning with a massive tray of fresh-baked blueberry scones and a mighty pot of tea. John didn’t realize just how much he had missed the 221 community, small as it may be.

John took a thoughtful bite of his scone and gazed out the window. He could hear the distant hum of traffic and people shouting for their friends and loved ones, completely oblivious to the dark world just a bit beyond the end of their noses. Werewolves. Real, honest-to-God werewolves, and he was one of them.

_I should really give Harry a call,_ he mused. _After all, she thinks I’m still missing._

Sherlock sipped at his own tea, the china resting on the table with a gentle clink.

“How are you feeling?” John blinked.

“Eh?”

“I said, how are you feeling?” John smiled.

“Fine. I feel...really good, actually. It’s...it’s nice to be home again.” Sherlock smiled warmly, and John blushed. He wasn’t really sure of what do now that everything was out in the open. His remaining time in the hospital had given him a lot of time to think, and while he couldn’t quite decipher everything, he was quite sure that he had fallen in love.

John was no stranger to serious relationships - he had almost gotten engaged in university - but this was something entirely different. Then again, anything to do with Sherlock was never normal. The man was a whirlwind; a literal force of nature.

Although, so was John, if one could call it that.

But Sherlock was brilliant, striking, and beautiful. His presence, sometimes grating as it may be, completed him - made him feel not just useful, but wanted. Loved. Not that he believed in any of that Hallmark crap, but felt that Sherlock was his soulmate.

A steady buzz from the downstairs doorbell broke John’s train of thought. In a surprising twist, Sherlock rose to answer the door. John twisted around his chair to greet the face of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. John smiled awkwardly.

“Hi Greg! ...Hi. How have you been?” Lestrade shuffled his feet on the stained throw rug.  
“Good, good. How have you been, John? Good to see you again.” Sherlock flopped down on the couch, effectively taking up the whole thing. Lestrade eased himself into the last shabby armchair, and faced John.

“I’ve been good, Greg.”

“Good, that’s...good.”

“You already said that.” Sherlock rudely interjected. Lestrade scrubbed his hands over his face. He looked very tired and drained.

“Well, Christ, Sherlock! What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey John, great to see you! How’s turning into the stuff of nightmares working out for you?’” He held up a placating hand. “No offense, mate.” John smiled wearily.

“None taken.” Sherlock placed his hands underneath his chin.

“So what exactly did my dear brother say to you and Donovan to keep you both quiet?” he asked, effectively derailing the subject. Lestrade blinked a few times, caught off-guard. John frowned. He was waiting for this, if only to give him some ammunition for permission to tear into Mycroft.

He felt he needed a healthy vent for his more destructive urges, anyways.

“He...well, nothing bad, first off, so don’t make that face, both of you.” Sherlock and John glanced at each other, not bothering to hide their smirks. Lestrade heaved a heavy sigh. “Basically, he said that...’certain channels’ were being watched, and if we tried to make this public, or leak the information in any way, then we could taken away for ‘an evaluation,’ which I assume he means have us tossed in a looney bin.” The DI blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused. “I mean, really, realistically - let’s just say hypothetically - that Donovan and I went to the press. Or say Officer Erin did. What can we say? What proof do we have?” 

On one hand, it’s our duty to report these sorts of things - I mean, ‘serve and protect’ is kind of what we do, and how good would we be if we kept quiet about a threat this big? A lot of innocent people have died because of this incident! Ah, no offense, John.” John smiled sadly.

“Again, none taken.”

“Our hands are tied. Mycroft has assured me that now that they know what they’re looking for, ‘certain teams’ can keep better tabs on everything, but that’s hardly a small comfort. London is my home, and I swore to keep her safe, and if there are crazy monsters running around, well...I can’t not do something!” He shot one last apologetic look at John, who weakly returned the glance.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, it looks likely Mycroft has provided some ‘additional support’ in keeping me, well...from hurting anyone.” John could feel both pairs of eyes boring into him. Shame blossomed in his gut.

“John, did you...was that ever you out there? I mean, there was another one...” John took a deep breath through his nose.

“I utilized Sherlock’s Homeless Network to help me eventually find an abandoned civilian bomb shelter on the edge of town, where I went every month. I’m never really aware of what happens; I black out and wake up, but I’m always securely in there.” Lestrade smiled with relief.

“Aw, well that’s good! I was worried that--”

“I was unsecured for my first two changes.”

“...What?”

“I was unsecured, okay? It’s not like I knew what the hell was going on!” John panted with fear, the dread of the situation turning his blood to ice. “I...the first time it happened, I...I think it was some old guy in Hyde Park, then another two...or three...on the other side of town the month after.” Sherlock startled them both by smacking his hands on his lap, exclaiming loudly.

“Damnit all! That was _you,_ John?” Sherlock seethed in frustration. “That case stumped me for weeks! Months, even! Do you know how much anguish you put me through with both those cases?” Sherlock calmed down enough to realize that the deafening silence was from both men, staring at him with their mouths hanging open. Lestrade’s face was a mask of incredulity, and John looked as if he couldn’t decide if he was furious or mortified. The detective smoothed his jacket. “...Bit not good?”

“Bit not good, yeah, Sherlock.” Lestrade ground out.

The silence was palpable.

Lestrade ran a hand through his short, silver hair. “Well, s’not like I can arrest you on charges of being a werewolf or anything...I don’t even want to think of the paperwork involved in that.” Lestrade paled. “Jesus Christ, I might have to deal with paperwork about werewolves...Oi, John, have you got any--”

“Third cabinet from the left; bottom shelf. You can grab the gin if you want, too. Actually, pour me a glass while you’re at it.”

“Brandy for me, thanks.” John shot him a look. Sherlock shrugged. “What? He’s already up.”

 

In the end, a conveniently well-timed text from Mycroft instructed Lestrade to not take any legal action against John for the murders that there was really no way to prove.

There was also the whole ‘werewolf’ thing, as well.

Greg hung around long enough to be able to drown out the two drinks with water and time, then took his leave. “ _Let’s grab a drink at the pub soon, eh you two? Just like old times. Y’know, help keep your mind off things_ ” Lestrade had promised. John was grateful for Lestrade - the man was so down-to-earth that being a paranormal entity wasn’t a deterrent if he considered you a friend.

The flat was quiet once more, save for the soft sounds of studio audience laughter from Mrs. Hudson’s television downstairs. John risked a glance at Sherlock, who seemed to be vibrating with excitement. John arched an eyebrow.

“Sherlock? You alright?” The detective turned to him, eyes bright and buzzing.

“Oh John, this is _fantastic!_ Do you know what this means?” he announced happily, pulling John up out of his chair by his wrists. John was pulled in a circle by a gleeful Sherlock, who looked more like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Uh, s-should I? What’s so fantastic about any of this? Sherlock!” Sherlock grinned at John, his white teeth flashing.

“You’re a _werewolf_ , John! A real, live werewolf!” John frowned.

“Yes, thank you, I thought that had been confirmed already. Need me to take an ad out in the paper for it?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and expelled a long-suffering sigh.

“John, you’re a werewolf, a creature - until recently - thought to only exist in myth and legend! And, as we know, all myths and legends must have been based off of something!” The detective’s eyes glittered with excitement. “If we know that werewolves are real, then what else is out there? Vampires, ghosts, demons, or the fae! Leprechauns, ghouls, yetis, poltergeists, chimeras, and if we’re lucky maybe even a homunculi! There’s a whole world right under our noses, John, and we’ve just scratched the surface! Isn’t that exciting?”

John was about to comment on how no, that wasn’t exciting, as they didn’t need the extra challenge of hauntings and vampire attacks when Sherlock swooped down kissed John passionately. Sherlock’s hands had migrated to John’s face, and he held his face when they finally pulled apart.

“Sherlock...” A blush blossomed on Sherlock’s face.

“John, just think of it! If we ever get bored of dealing with normal humans with their normal murders then you and I can go and--” John effectively shut him up by covering his mouth with his own. They were both breathing heavily by the time they parted.

Both men simply stood in the middle of the living room, the sounds of their laboured breathing breaking the silence. Sherlock motioned with a tip of his head towards his bedroom. John frowned slightly, but gave a slight nod and followed Sherlock across the room.

 

Sherlock’s room was, in comparison to the rest of the flat, shockingly clean, and that was with the cigarette burns on the carpet. Housekeeping had obviously not been on the forefront of Sherlock’s mind while John was away (though it wasn’t a priority even if John was around). John smiled ruefully at the thought.

Sherlock stood awkwardly across from John, his hands wringing with nervousness. “Well, ah...shall we?” John smiled gently and sat down on the bed.

“Sherlock, we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable doing. I’m actually just happy being here with you right now.” His libido wasn’t happy, but he was just too exhausted and emotionally spent. He stared at his hands in his lap. “Why don’t you just sit with me for a bit?” Sherlock gave a curt nod, and flopped down on the bed beside John. John laid down beside him, his legs bent over the edge and stared up at the ceiling. A frown suddenly adorned his face. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“...Is that a pair of my pants hanging from your ceiling fan?”

“...Maybe.” John rolled over on his side and faced the detective.

“...Why in the hell is there a pair of my pants - my favourite pair of pants - hanging from your ceiling fan?” Sherlock turned his head away.

“Would you...believe me if I said it was for an experiment on the aerodynamics of poly-cotton blends?”

Any other sane person would have scolded Sherlock, yelled at him, or even just rolled their eyes in exasperation, but in that moment, John knew that he was _home_. The laugh bubbled deep in his chest and rose up, starting out as a few short giggles. Eventually, the giggles turned to snorts, which turned to chortles, and soon, he was laughing so hard tears were running down his face. To see Sherlock laugh alongside him surrounded his heart with such warmth that he had to pause for a moment. John leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s smiling face.

“God, I’m so happy to be here right now, you’ve no idea.” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder. Long fingers began running through John’s now slightly-too-long hair.

“I missed you too...Please, if you feel the need to run off again, let me know so I can at least come with you.” John grinned into Sherlock’s shirt.

“I will, I will. Don’t you worry.”

 

They laid there in a comfortable, companionable silence for awhile, listening to the gentle sounds of human activity outside. After sleeping under bridges and in derelict housing, this was heaven. John still had that persistent ember in his groin, but only his top was halfway laying on top of Sherlock, so he he hoped that the detective didn’t notice. John nearly sucumbed to the gentle pull of sleep when Sherlock’s chest rumbled with a question.

“What’s it like?” John blinked blearily.

“Hmm? What’s what like?”

“...Shopping at Tesco’s. What do you think I’m asking about?” John sobered up immediately. He pulled himself up to lean on Sherlock’s chest and look him square in the face.

“...Do you really want to know?” Sherlock gave him a cocky smirk.

“Of course I do. I have work to do on this, after all.” The humor faded from his face. “Start from the top, and leave nothing out. No detail is too small; no sensation too unimportant. I want to know everything.” John eased himself back down and rolled off the detective, and resumed staring up at the ceiling.

He inexplicably felt dirty all of a sudden.

“It’s...well, indescribable--”

“Then try.”

“...Yes, I was going to, thank you very much. May I continue?”

“Please.”

“...As I was saying, it’s...well, painful. All of it. I’m not really aware of what’s going on, but the initial change is just...pain. It’s brutal, all-consuming pain; pain to the point that your brain can’t even register it.” John turned on his side and curled up, bringing his knees to his chest. “Let’s just say It’s not something I look forward to every month.”

“And while you’re transformed? Are you aware of what you do, and are just over-ridden by other urges? Do you have a memory gap from when you change to when you wake up?” John was silent for a few moments.

“I...never remember what happens right away. Even if I’m faced with, erm...irrefutable evidence, I don’t really remember what exactly happened. It seems that I’m on some kind of bizarre wait time.” Sherlock placed his hands under his chin. John wasn’t facing him to see, but he knew he was doing it.

“Explain.”

“Well, looking back, it’s like...it’s like trying to remember bits from a movie you saw six or seven years ago. You remember that you’ve seen the movie, but hardly remember the plot, who you were with, or even what it was about. All you can recall are one or two memorable scenes. So, if something...happens...on one of those knights, little bits of it start popping up in my memory about a month later, kind of like deja vu.”

“Except not deja vu.”

“...Well no, but bear with me here, Sherlock.”

“And what about when you’re ‘not in the drivers’ seat?”

“Well...I’m ‘not in the drivers’ seat. I don’t really have much control; I’m not aware of what I’m doing. Even if I do something that seems ‘like me,’ I...don’t know if it is me. Does that make sense?”

“...Kind of. Mostly. Yes.”

“If you’re wondering if I actually willingly killed those people, then you’re wrong. I don’t enjoy taking innocent lives.” Sherlock turned his head.

“I never said I thought you enjoyed killing those people--”

“Can we _please_ stop bringing up the fact that I killed those people?”

“It doesn’t matter who or what you’ve killed, John--”

“Can we PLEASE stop talking about who I killed?!”

John was breathing heavily. Sherlock could hear the slight shudder in each of his breaths as he fought off anger and panic. Long arms snaked around John’s small, but muscular form, and a pointed chin brushed the back of his neck. John’s hands snaked up and desperately grasped Sherlock’s, ignoring the fact that he was trembling.

They laid there on the bed, Sherlock holding John as he quietly wept, and whispered into his ear that everything was going to be alright.

 

***************

The flickering lights from a high-priced computer monitor strobed in the darkened office. High-quality speakers could sadly do little to save the poor audio quality from the cellphone footage. Grainy footage of two massive, bipedal wolf creatures danced across the screen, their snarls and roars causing the speakers to occasionally crack.

The man watching the footage smiled wickedly, his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. His hand raised to rub the barely-there stubble on his chin, his hand eventually trailing down to tug at his immaculately-done necktie.

“Tick, tock, Sherlock...you’re not going to have the only big bag wolf in town any longer...”

 

He needed to make a few phone calls.


End file.
